LIBRARY 

University  of  CalifornU 
IRVINE 


s  It  Was  Written 


A  JEWISH  MUSICIAN'S  STORY 


BV 


SIDNEY    LUSKA,  ft! 

(HENRY  HARLAND) 

AUTHOR  OF   '-CRANDISON  MATHER,"     "THE  YOKE  OF  THE  THCRAH/ 
"A  LATIN  QUARTER   COURTSHIP,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

STREET  &  SMITH,  PUBLISHERS 
138  WILLIAM  STREET 


Copyright,  1885, 
By  O.  M.  DUNHAM 

Copyright,  1900, 
By  STREET  &  SMITH 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 


i. 

17ERONIKA  PATHZUOL  was  my  be- 
V  trothed.  I  must  give  some  account  of 
the  circumstances  under  which  she  and  I  first 
met  each  other,  so  that  my  tale  may  be  clear 
and  complete  from  the  beginning. 

For  a  long  while,  without  knowing  why,  I 
had  been  restless — hungry,  without  knowing  for 
what  I  hungered.  Teaching  music  to  support 
myself,  I  employed  all  of  the  day  that  was 
not  thus  occupied  in  practicing  on  my  own  be 
half.  My  life  consequently  was  a  solitary  one, 
numbering  but  few  acquaintances  and  not  any 
friends.  In  my  short  intervals  of  leisure  I 
was  generally  too  tired  to  seek  out  society;  1 
was  too  obscure  and  unimportant  to  be  sought 
out  in  turn.  Yet,  young  and  of  an  ardent 
temperament,  doubtless  it  was  natural  that 


4  AS  IT  W 'AS  WRITTEN. 

singer  reached  that  glorious  climax  of  the  song, 
"  Nunc  et  in  hora  mortis  nostra  !  "  At  that 
instant,  as  if  released  from  a  spell,  I  drew  a  long 
breath  and  looked  around.  Then  for  the  first 
time  I  saw  Veronika  Pathzuol.  Her  eyes  and 
mine  met  for  the  first  time. 

"A  lady,  young,  tall,  beautiful,  strange,  and 
sad  " — and  pale.  Her  face  was  pale,  like  an 
angel's.  The  wealth  of  black  hair  above  it  and 
the  dark  eyes  that  gazed  sadly  out  of  it  ren 
dered  the  pallor  more  intense.  But  it  was  not 
the  pallor  of  ill-health ;  it  was  the  pallor  of  a 
luminous  white  soul.  As  I  beheld  her  standing 
there  in  the  moonlight  scarcely  a  yard  away 
from  me,  I  knew  all  at  once  what  it  was  my 
heart  had  craved  for  so  long  a  while.  I  knew 
at  once,  by  the  sudden  pain  that  pierced  it,  that 
my  heart  had  been  waiting  for  this  lady  all  its 
life.  I  did  not  stop  to  reflect  and  determine. 
Had  I  done  so,  most  likely — nay,  most  certain 
ly — I  should  never  have  had  to  tell  this  story. 
The  words  flew  to  my  tongue  and  were  spoken 
as  soon  as  thought. — "  Oh,  how  beautiful,  how 
beautiful ! "  I  exclaimed,  meaning  her. 

"Very   beautiful,"  I  heard  her  voice,  clear 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  5 

and  soft,  respond.  "  It  is  almost  a  pain,  the 
feeling  such  intense  beauty  gives," — meaning  the 
scene  before  us. 

"And  yet  this  is  every-day,  hum-drum,  com 
mercial  New  York,"  added  another  voice,  one 
that  jarred  upon  my  hearing  like  the  scraping 
of  a  contre-bass  after  a  cadenza  by  the  flute. 
She  was  leaning  on -the  arm  of  a  man.  I  was 
at  the  verge  of  being  straightway  jealous,  when 
I  observed  that  his  hair  and  beard  were  snowy 
and  that  his  face  was  wrinkled. 

We  got  into  conversation  without  ceremony. 
Nature  had  introduced  us.  Our  common 
appreciation  of  the  loveliness  round  about  broke 
the  ice  and  provided  a  topic  for  speech.  After 
her  first  impulsive  utterance,  Veronika  said 
little.  But  the  old  man  was  voluble,  evidently 
glad  of  the  opportunity  to  express  his  ideas  to 
a  new  person.  And  I  was  more  than  glad  to 
listen,  because  while  doing  so  I  could  gaze  upon 
her  face  to  my  heart's  content. 

Something  that  I  had  said,  in  reply  to  a 
remark  of  his  upon  the  singing  of  the  Ave, 
caused  him  to  ask,  "  Ah,  you  understand  music? 
You  are  a  musician — yes?" 


6  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"  I  play  the  violin,"  I  answered. 

"  Do  you  hear,  Veronika  ?  "  he  cried.  "  Our 
friend  plays  the  violin  !  My  dear  sir,  you  must 
do  us  the  favor  of  playing  for  us  before  we 
part.  Do  not  be  surprised — pay  no  heed  to 
the  formalities.  Is  not  music  a  free-masonry  ? 
Come,  you  shall  try  your  skill  upon  an  Amati. 
Such  an  evening  as  this  must  have  an  appro 
priate  ending.  Come." 

Without  allowing  me  time  to  protest,  had  I 
been  disposed  to  do  so,  he  grasped  my  arm  and 
started  off.  He  kept  on  talking  as  we  marched 
along.  I  had  no  attention  for  what  he  said. 
My  mind  was  divided  between  delight  at  my 
good-fortune,  and  query  as  to  what  its  upshot 
would  be.  We  had  not  far  to  go.  A  few  doors 
to  the  west  of  First  avenue  he  turned  up  a 
stoop.  It  was  a  modest  apartment-house.  We 
climbed  to  the  topmost  story  and  stood  still 
in  the  dark  while  he  fumbled  for  a  match. 
Then  he  lighted  the  gas  and  said,  "  Sit  down." 

The  room  was  bare  and  cheerless.  A  chromo 
or  two  sufficed  to  decorate  the  walls.  The  fur 
niture — a  few  chairs  and  a  center-table — was 
stiff  and  shabby.  The  carpet  was  threadbare. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  7 

But  a  piano  occupied  a  corner ;  and  the  floor, 
the  table,  and  the  chairs  were  littered  thick 
with  music.  So  I  felt  at  home.  As  I  look 
back  at  that  meager  little  parlor  now,  it  is 
transformed  into  a  sanctuary.  There  the  deep 
est  moments  of  two  lives  were  spent.  Yet 
to-day  strangers  dwell  in  it ;  come  and  go,  laugh 
and  chatter,  eat,  drink,  and  make  merry  between 
its  walls,  all  unconcernedly,  never  pausing  to 
bestow  a  thought  upon  the  sad,  sweet  lady 
whose  presence  once  hallowed  the  place,  whose 
tears  more  than  once  watered  the  floor  over 
which  they  tread  with  indifferent  footsteps. 

The  old  man  lighted  the  gas  and  said,  "  Sit 
down,"  making  obedience  possible  by  clearing  a 
chair  of  the  music  it  held.  Then  scrutinizing 
my  face:  "You  are  a  Jew,  are  you  not?"  he 
inquired,  in  his  quick,  nervous  way. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "by  birth." 

"  And  by  faith  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  am  not  orthodox,  not  a  zealot." 

"Your  name?  " 

"  Neuman — Ernest  Neuman." 

"And  mine,  Tikulski — Baruch.  You  see  we 
are  of  one  race — the  race  —  the  chosen  race! 


8  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"Neither  am  I  orthodox.  I  keep  Yom  Kipper, 
to  be  sure,  but  I  have  no  conscientious  scruples 
against  shell-fish,  and  indeed  the  'succulent 
oyster  '  is  especially  congenial  to  my  palate. 
This,"  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  toward  Veron- 
ika,  "  this  is  my  niece,  Miss  Pathzuol — P-a-t-h- 
z-u-o-1  —  pronounced  Patchuol  —  Hungarian 
name.  Her  mother  was  my  sister." 

Veronika  dropped  a  courtesy.  Her  eyes 
seemed  to  plead,  "  Do  not  laugh  at  my  uncle. 
He  is  eccentric;  but  be  charitable." 

"  Now,  Veronika,  show  Mr.  Neuman  your 
music  and  find  something  that  you  can  play 
together.  I  will  go  fetch  the  violin." 

The  old  man  left  the  room. 

"What  will  you  play?"  asked  Veronika. 
Her  voice  quavered.  She  was  timid,  as  indeed 
it  was  natural  she  should  be. 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  said,  my  own  voice  not 
as  firm  as  I  could  have  wished.  "  What  have 
you  got?" 

We  commenced  at  the  top  of  a  big  pile  of 
music  and  had  settled  upon  the  prize  song  from 
the  Meistersinger — not  then  as  hackneyed  as  it 
is  at  present,  not  then  the  victim  of  every  pas- 


AS  IT  IV AS  WRITTEN.  9 

sable  amateur — when  Mr.  Tikulski  came  back. 
It  was  in  truth  an  Amati  that  he  brought.  The 
discolored,  half  obliterated  label  within  said  so 
— but  the  label  might  have  lied.  The  strong, 
tense,  ringing  tone  that  it  emitted  in  response 
to  the  A  which  Veronika  gave  me  said  so  also — 
and  that  did  not  lie.  I  played  as  best  I  could. 
Rather,  the  music  played  itself.  With  a  violin 
under  my  chin,  I  lapse  into  semi-consciousness, 
lose  my  identity.  Another  spirit  impels  my 
arm,  pouring  itself  out  through  the  voice  of  my 
instrument.  Not  until  silence  is  restored  do  I 
realize  that  I  have  been  the  performer.  While 
the  music  is  going  on  my  personality  is  anni 
hilated.  With  the  final  note  I  seem  to  "  come 
to,"  as  one  does  from  a  trance. 

When  I  came  to  this  time  it  was  to  be 
embraced  by  my  host  with  an  effusiveness  that 
overwhelmed  me.  "  Ah,  you  are  a  true 
musician,"  he  cried,  releasing  me  from  his  arms. 
"You  have  the  inspiration.  Veronika,  speak, 
tell  him  how  nobly  he  has  played." 

"  I  can't  speak,  I  can't  tell  him,"  answered 
Veronika,  "  it  has  taken  away  all  power  of 
speech."  But  she  gave  me  a  glance,  allowed 


10  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

her  eyes  to  stay  with  mine  for  a  long  moment. 
A  fire  had  been  smoldering  in  my  breast  from 
the  first ;  at  these  words,  at  this  glance,  it  burst 
into  flame.  A  great  light  inundated  my  soul. 
I  felt  the  arteries  tingling  to  my  very  finger 
tips.  I  started  tuning  up,  to  hide  my  emotion. 
Then  we  played  the  march  from  Raff's  Lenore. 

I  am  afraid  my  agitation  marred  the  effect  of 
Raff's  dramatic  composition.  At  any  rate,  the 
plaudits  were  faint  when  I  had  done.  After  a 
breathing  spell  Mr.  Tikulski  told  Veronika  to 
sing.  She  played  her  own  accompaniment 
while  I  stood  by  to  turn. 

It  would  be  useless  for  me  to  try  to  qualify 
her  singing.  Whatever  critical  faculty  I  had 
was  stricken  dumb.  I  can  only  say  that  she 
sang  a  song  in  French  (an  old,  old  romance, 
till  then  unfamiliar  to  me ;  so  old  that  the 
composer's  name  has  been  forgotten)  in  a 
splendid  contralto  voice,  and  that  it  seemed  as 
if  she  was  playing  upon  the  inmost  tissue  of 
my  life,  so  keenly  I  felt  each  note.  I  quite 
forgot  to  turn  the  page  at  the  proper  place,  and 
Veronika  had  to  prompt  me.  It  was  a  little 
thing,  and  yet  I  remember  as  vividly  as  if  from 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  II 

yesterday  the  nod  of  the  head  and  the  inflec 
tion  with  which  she  said,  "Turn,  please." 

"  '  Le  temps  fait  passer  V amour]  "  repeated 
Mr.  Tikulski :  it  was  the  last  line  of  the  song. 
"  Veronika,  bring  some  wine.  Le  vin  fait  passer 
le  temps"  and  he  chuckled  at  his  joke.  Another 
small  thing  that  I  remember  vividly  is  how 
Tikulski,  as  she  left  the  room,  posed  his  fore 
finger  upon  his  Adam's-apple  and  said,  "She 
carries  a  'cello  here." 

He  went  on  to  this  effect : — Veronika,  as  I 
already  knew,  was  his  niece.  He  also  was  a 
violinist :  more  than  that,  he  was  a  composer, 
though  as  yet  unpublished.  With  the  self- 
conceit  too  characteristic  of  musical  people,  he 
told  me  how  he  was  engaged  upon  "  an  epoch- 
making  symphony  " — had  been  engaged  upon 
it  for  thevlast  dozen  years,  would  be  engaged 
upon  it  for  the  dozen  years  to  come.  Then 
the  world  should  have  it,  and  he,  not  having 
lived  in  vain,  would  die  content.  Veronika 
was  now  one-and-twenty.  During  her  child 
hood  he  had  played  in  an  orchestra  and 
arranged  dance-music  and  done  other  hack 
work  to  earn  money  for  her  maintenance  and 


12  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

education.  She  had  received  the  best  musical 
training,  instrumental  and  vocal,  that  could  be 
had  in  New  York.  Now  he  had  turned  the 
tables.  Now  he  did  nothing  but  compose — 
reserved  all  his  time  and  strength  for  his  mas 
terpiece.  Veronika  had  become  the  bread 
winner.  She  taught  on  an  average  seven  hours 
a  day.  She  sang  regularly  in  church  and 
synagogue,  and  at  concerts  and  musicals  when 
ever  she  got  a  chance. — Veronika  reentered  the 
room  bearing  cakes  and  wine.  She  sat  down 
near  to  us,  and  I  forgot  every  thing  in  the  con 
templation  of  her  beautiful,  sad,  strange  face. 
Her  eyes  were  bottomless.  Far,  far  in  their 
liquid  depths  the  spirit  shone  like  a  star.  All 
the  history  of  Israel  was  in  her  glance. 

Every  touch  of  constraint  had  vanished  from 
her  bearing.  She  spoke  with  me  as  with  one 
whom  she  knew  well.  I  could  scarcely  believe 
that  only  an  hour  ago  we  had  been  ignorant  of 
each  other's  existence.  We  discussed  music 
and  found  that  our  tastes  were  in  accord.  We 
compared  notes  on  teaching  and  exchanged 
anecdotes  about  our  respective  pupils.  She 
said  among  other  things  that  more  than  half 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  IJ 

the  money  she  earned  her  uncle  sent  to  Ger 
many  for  the  relief  of  his  widowed  sister  and 
her  offspring,  who  were  extremely  poor !  Her 
every  syllable  clove  my  heart  like  an  arrow.  I 
grew  hot  with  indignation  to  think  of  this  frail, 
delicate  maiden  slaving  her  lite  away  in  order 
that  her  relations  might  fatten  in  idleness  and 
her  fanatic  of  an  uncle  work  at  his  impossible 
symphony.  My  fists  clenched  convulsively  as 
I  fancied  her  exposed  to  the  ups  and  downs, 
the  hardships,  the  humiliations,  of  a  music- 
teacher's  career.  I  took  no  pains  to  regulate 
my  manner:  and,  if  she  had  possessed  the  least 
trace  of  sophistication,  she  would  have 
guessed  that  I  loved  her  from  every  modulation 
of  my  voice.  Love  her  I  did.  I  had  already 
loved  her  for  an  eternity — from  the  moment 
my  eyes  had  first  encountered  hers  in  the  moon 
light  by  the  terrace. — But  it  was  getting  late. 
It  would  not  do  for  me  to  wear  my  welcome  out. 

"  Nay,  stay,"  interposed  Mr.  Tikulski,  "  you 
have  not  heard  me  play  yet." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  must  hear  my  uncle  play," 
said  Veronika.  "The  Adagio  of  Handel?" 
stie  asked  of  him. 


14  AS  IT  IV AS  WRITTEN. 

11  No,  child,"  he  answered,  with  a  tinge  of  im 
patience,  "  the  minuet — from  my  own  sym 
phony,"  aiming  the  last  words  at  me. 

Veronika  returned  to  the  piano.  They  be 
gan. 

Indeed,  the  old  man  played  superbly.  His 
selection  was  a  marvelous  finger-exercise — but 
of  true  music  it  contained  none  save  that  which 
he  informed  it  with  by  the  fervor  of  his  per 
formance.  He  was  a  perfect  executant.  His 
tone  was  equal  to  Wilhelmj's.  It  was  a  pity, 
a  great  pity,  that  he  should  fritter  himself 
away  in  the  endeavor  to  compose.  Veronika 
and  I  said  as  much  as  this  to  each  other  with 
our  eyes  when  finally  his  bow  had  reached  a 
standstill. 

"  Well,  if  you  will  insist  on  going,"  he  said, 
"  you  must  at  least  agree  to  come  as  soon  as 
possible  again.  This  is  Wednesday.  We  are 
always  at  home  on  Wednesday  evening.  The 
other  nights  of  the  week  Veronika  is  engaged  : 
Monday  and  Tuesday,  lessons ;  Thursday,  Fri 
day,  Saturday,  and  Sunday,  rehearsals  and  ser 
vices  at  church  and  synagogue.  The  church  is 
in  Hoboken :  she  doesn't  get  home  till  eleven 


AS -IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  1$ 

o'clock.  So  on  Wednesday  we  will  see  you 
without  fail — yes?" 

As  I  looked  forward,  Wednesday  seemed  a 
million  years  away.  "  What  an  old  brute  you 
are  to  make  that  child  track  over  to  Hoboken 
two  nights  a  week ! "  I  thought ;  and  said, 
"  Thank  you.  You  are  very  kind.  Good-by." 

Veronika  gave  me  her  hand.  The  long  slim 
fingers  clasped  mine  cordially  and  sent  an  elec 
tric  thrill  into  my  heart. 


II. 


I  SUPPOSE  it  is  needless  to  say  that  I  passed 
a  sleepless  night,  haunted  till  morning  by 
Veronika's  face  and  voice ;  that  I  tossed  end 
lessly  from  pillow  to  pillow,  going  over  in 
memory  every  circumstance  from  our  meeting 
to  our  parting  ;  that  I  built  a  hundred  wondrous 
castles  in  the  air  and  that  Veronika  presided  as 
chatelaine  in  each.  I  thought  I  should  boil 
over  with  rage  when  I  dwelt  upon  the  enforced 
drudgery  of  her  life.  I  could  hardly  contain 
myself  for  sheer  joy  when  I  made  bold  to  say, 
"  Why,  it  is  not  impossible  that  some  day  she 
may  love  you — not  impossible  that  some  day 
she  may  consent  to  become  your  wife."  One 
doubt,  the  inevitable  one,  harassed  me  :  Had  I 
a  clear  field?  Was  there  perchance  another 
suitor  there  before  me  ?  Perhaps  her  affections 
were  already  spoken.  Still,  on  the  whole,  prob 
ably  not.  For,  where  had  he  kept  himself 
during  the  evening?  Surely,  if  he  had  existed 


AS  IT  IV A S   IV R I T TEN.  1 7 

at  all,  he  would  have  been  at  her  side.  Yet  on 
the  other  hand  she  was  so  beautiful,  it  could 
scarcely  be  believed  that  she  had  attained  the 
age  of  one-and-twenty  without  taking  some 
heart  captive.  And  that  sad,  mysterious  ex 
pression  in  her  eyes — how  had  it  come  about 
except  through  love  ? — Thus  between  despair 
and  hope  I  swung,  pendulum-like,  all  night. 

Dawn  filtered  through  the  window.  "  Thurs 
day  ! "  I  muttered.  "  Seven  days  still  to  be 
dragged  through — but  then!" — Imagination 
faltered  at  the  prospect.  I  went  about  my  usual 
business  in  a  sort  of  intoxication.  My  foot 
step  had  acquired  an  unwonted  briskness. 
Every  five  minutes  my  heart  jumped  into  my 
throat  and  lost  a  beat.  But  my  pupils  suffered. 
I  was  more  inclined  to  absent-mindedness  than 
ever.  At  dusk  I  revisited  the  terrace  despite 
the  rain  that  fell  in  torrents,  and  walked  by  her 
house  and  lived  through  the  whole  happy 
episode  again. 

Be  assured  I  was  punctual  when  at  last 
Wednesday  came.  I  remember,  as  I  mounted 
the  staircase  that  led  to  their  abode,  an  absurd 
fear  beset  me.  What  if  they  had  moved  away? 


1 8  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

What  if  I  should  not  find  her  after  this  inter 
minable  week  of  waiting?  My  hand  shook  as 
I  pulled  the  bell-knob.  I  was  nerving  myself 
for  the  worst  in  the  interval  that  elapsed  before 
the  door  was  opened. — The  door  was  opened 
by  Veronika  herself ! 

"Ah,  good-evening.  We  were  expecting 
you,"  she  said. 

I  stammered  a  response.  My  temples  were 
throbbing  madly. 

Veronika  led  me  into  the  dining-room.  They 
were  still  at  table.  I  began  to  apologize. 
Tikulski  stopped  me. 

"  You  have  come  just  at  the  proper  moment," 
he  cried.  "You  shall  now  have  occasion  to 
confess  that  my  niece  is  as  good  a  cook  as  she 
is  a  player." 

"  But  I  have  dined,"  I  protested. 

"  But  you  can  make  room  for  one  morsel 
more — for  a  mere  taste  of  pudding." 

Veronika,  with  infinite  grace,  was  moving 
about  the  room,  getting  a  plate  and  napkin. 
Then  with  her  own  hands  she  helped  me  to 
the  pudding. 

"  Doesn't  that  flavor  do  her  credit  ?  "  cried 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  «9 

Tikulski.  "  It  is  a  melody  materialized,  is  it 
not?" 

We  all  laughed ;  and  I  ate  my  pudding  at 
perfect  ease. 

"  I  hope  Mr.  Neuman  has  brought  his 
violin,"  said  Veronika,  "  for  then  we  can  have  a 
first  and  second." 

"  Yes,  I  took  that  liberty,"  I  answered. 

And  afterward,  adjourning  to  the  parlor,  I 
played  second  to  the  old  man's  first  for  an  hour  or 
more — reading  at  sight  from  his  own  manuscript 
music,  which  was  not  the  lightest  of  tasks.  Then 
Veronika  sang  to  us.  And  then,  as  it  was 
extremely  hot,  Mr.  Tikulski  proposed  that  we 
betake  ourselves  to  a  concert  garden  in  the 
neighborhood  and  spend  the  rest  of  the  evening 
in  the  open  air.  We  sat  at  a  round  table  under 
an  ailanthus  tree,  and  watched  the  people  come 
and  go,  and  listened  to  light  tunes  discoursed 
by  a  tolerable  band,  and  by  and  by  had  a 
delicious  little  supper ;  and  while  Mr.  Tikulski 
puffed  a  huge  cigar,  Veronika  and  I  enjoyed  a 
long,  delightful  confidential  talk  in  which  our 
minds  got  wonderfully  close  together,  and 
during  which  one  scrap  of  information  dropped 


ao  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

from  her  lips  that  afforded  me  infinite  relief. 
Speaking  of  her  nocturnal  pilgrimages  to 
Hoboken,  she  said,  "  I  go  over  by  myself  in 
the  summer  because  it  is  still  light ;  but  com 
ing  home,  the  organist  takes  me  to  the  ferry, 
where  uncle  meets  me." 

"So,"  I  concluded,  "there  is  no  one  ahead 
of  me  ;  for  if  there  were,  of  course  he  would  be 
her  escort."  And  I  lost  no  time  about  putting 
in  a  word  for  myself.  "  I  am  very  anxious  to 
hear  you  sing  in  church,"  I  said.  "  Your  voice 
can  not  attain  its  full  effect  between  the  narrow 
walls  of  a  parlor." 

And  it  was  agreed  that  I  should  call  upon 
them  Sunday  afternoon  and  that  we  should  all 
three  take  a  walk  in  Central  Park,  Veronika 
and  I  afterward  going  to  Hoboken  together. 
Music  had,  indeed,  proved  a  freemasonry,  so 
far  as  we  were  concerned.  This  was  only  our 
second  interview  ;  and  already  we  treated  each 
other  like  old  and  intimate  friends. 

A  thunder  shower  broke  above  our  heads  on 
the  way  back  to  Fifty-first  street,  and  in 
default  of  an  umbrella,  I  lent  Veronika  my 
handkerchief  to  protect  her  hat.  She  returned 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  21 

it  to  me  at  the  door  of  her  house,  and  lo!  it 
was  freighted  with  a  faint,  sweet  perfume  that 
it  had  caught  from  contact  with  her.  I  stowed 
the  handkerchief  religiously  in  my  pocket,  and 
for  a  week  afterward  it  still  retained  a  trace  of 
the  same  dainty  odor.  It  was  a  touchstone,  by 
means  of  which  I  could  call  her  up  bodily  before 
me  whenever  I  desired. 

As  I  sat  alone  in  my  bed-chamber  that 
night,  I  acknowledged  that  I  was  more  deeply 
in  love  than  ever.  The  reader  would  not 
wonder  at  this  if  he  could  form  a  true  concep 
tion  of  Veronika's  presence.  I  wish  I  could 
describe  her — that  is,  render  in  words  the 
impression  wrought  upon  me  by  her  face,  and 
her  voice,  and  her  manner,  and  the  things  she 
said.  I  am  not  accustomed  to  expressing  such 
matters  in  words,  but  with  my  violin  I  should 
have  no  sort  of  difficulty.  If  I  wanted  to  give 
utterance  to  my  idea  of  Veronika,  all  I  should 
have  to  do  would  be  to  take  my  violin  and  play 
this  heavenly  melody  from  Chopin's  Impromptu 
in  C-sharp  minor: — 


22 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 


Largo.  tr 

* 


It  seems  almost  as  though  Chopin  must  have 
had  Veronika  in  mind  when  he  composed  it. 
Its  color,  its  passion,  its  vague  dreamy  sadness, 
and  withal  its  transparent  simplicity,  make  it  for 
me  a  perfect  musical  portrait.  Those  were  the 
traits  which  most  constantly  and  conspicuously 
abode  in  my  thought  of  her.  Her  simplicity, 
her  child-like  simplicity,  and  her  naturalness,  and 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  §3 

the  serene  purity  of  her  soul,  made  her  as  dif* 
ferent  from  other  women  that  I  had  seen — 
though,  to  be  sure,  I  had  seen  but  few  women 
except  as  I  passed  them  in  the  street  or  rode 
with  them  in  the  horse-car— made  her  as 
different  from  those  I  had  seen,  at  any  rate,  as 
a  lily  plucked  on  the  hillside  is  different  from  a 
hothouse  flower,  as  daylight  is  different  from 
gaslight,  as  Schubert's  music  is  different  from 
Liszt's.  In  every  thing  and  from  every  point 
of  view,  she  was  simple  and  natural  and 
serene.  Her  great  pale  face,  and  the  dark  eyes, 
and  the  smile  that  came  and  went  like  a  melody 
across  her  lips,  and  the  way  she  wore  her  hair, 
and  the  way  she  dressed,  and  the  way  she 
played,  sang,  spoke,  and  her  gestures,  and  the 
low,  sad,  musical  laughter  that  I  heard  only 
once  or  twice  from  the  beginning  to  the  end — 
all  were  simple,  and  natural,  and  serene.  And 
yet  there  was  a  mystery  attaching  to  each  of 
them,  a  something  beyond  my  comprehension, 
a  something  that  tinged  my  love  for  her  with 
awe.  A  mystery  that  would  neither  be  defined 
nor  penetrated  nor  ignored,  brooded  over  her, 
as  the  perfume  broods  over  a  rose.  I  doubt 


24  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

whether  an  American  woman  can  be  like  this 
unless  she  is  older  and  has  had  certain  experi 
ences  of  her  own.  Veronika  had  not  had 
sufficient  experience  of  her  own  to  account  for 
what  I  have  described :  but  she  was  a  Jewess, 
and  all  the  experience  of  the  Jewish  race,  ail 
the  martyrdom  of  the  scattered  hosts,  were  hers 
by  inheritance. 

No  matter  how  I  was  occupied,  whether- 
teaching,  or  practicing,  or  reading,  or  writing, 
or  walking,  or  talking  to  other  people,  I  was 
always  conscious  of  the  love  of  Veronika  astir  in 
my  heart.  Just  as  through  all  the  vicissitudes 
of  a  fugue  the  subject  melody  will  survive 
in  one  form  or  another  and  be  at  no  minute 
altogether  silenced,  so  through  all  the  changes 
of  my  busy  day  the  thought  of  Veronika  lingered 
in  my  mind.  I  can  not  tell  how  completely  the 
whole  aspect  of  the  world  had  been  altered 
since  the  night  1  first  saw  her  standing  in  the 
moonlight.  It  was  as  if  my  life  up  to  that 
moment  had  been  passed  beneath  gray  skies, 
and  suddenly  the  clouds  had  dispersed  and 
the  sunshine  flooded  the  earth.  A  myriad 
things  became  plain  and  clear  that  had  been 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  15 

invisible  until  now,  and  old  things  acquired  a 
new  significance.  My  heart  welled  with  tender 
ness  for  all  living  creatures — the  overflow  of 
the  tenderness  it  had  for  her.  All  my  senses, 
all  my  capacities  for  pain  and  pleasure,  were  more 
acute  than  before.  Suddenly  music,  which  had 
been  my  art,  became  my  religion  :  she  had 
glorified  it  by  her  devotion.  I  looked  forward 
to  my  next  visit  with  her  as  a  benighted  travel 
er  looks  forward  to  the  glowing  window  that 
promises  rest  and  shelter :  only  in  my  case  the 
light  illuminated  my  whole  pathway  and  made 
the  progress  toward  its  source  a  constant  delight 
instead  of  a  perfunctory  labor.  But  this  is  the 
common  story  of  a  man  in  love,  and  stands  with 
out  telling.  Suffice  it  that  before  our  acquaint 
ance  was  a  month  old  I  had  got  upon  the  most 
intimate  terms  with  Mr.  Tikulski  and  Veronika, 
spending  not  only  every  Wednesday  evening  at 
their  house  but  also  each  Sunday  afternoon, 
and  accompanying  her  to  Hoboken  as  regularly 
as  she  had  to  go.  Never  was  there  a  prouder 
man  than  I  at  those  junctures  when,  with  her 
hand  pressed  tightly  under  my  arm,  I  felt  that 
she  was  trusting  herself  entirely  to  my  charge 


a6  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

and  that  I  was  answerable  for  her  safety  and 
well-being.  The  Hoboken  ferry-boats  became 
to  my  thinking  vastly  more  interesting  than 
the  most  romantic  of  Venetian  gondolas ;  and 
to  this  day  I  can  not  sniff  the  peculiar  stuffy 
odor  that  always  pervades  a  ferry-boat  cabin 
without  being  transported  back  across  the  years 
to  that  happy,  happy  time.  I  actually  blessed 
the  necessity  that  forced  her  to  journey  so  far 
for  her  livelihood  ;  and  it  was  with  an  emphatic 
pang  that  I  listened  to  the  plans  which  she 
and  Tikulski  were  prone  to  discuss  whereby 
she  was  shortly  to  get  an  engagement  nearer 
home :  though  the  sight  of  her  pale,  tired  cheek 
reproached  me  the  moment  after.  On  her 
side  she  made  no  concealment  of  a  most 
cordial  regard  for  me.  Her  face  always  lighted 
up  at  my  arrival ;  she  was  always  eager  to  share 
her  ideas  with  me  and  to  call  forth  my  opinion 
of  her  work,  appearing  pleased  by  my  praise 
and  impressed  by  my  criticism.  She  set  me 
an  admirable  example  of  frankness.  She  would 
say  precisely  what  she  thought  of  my  rendi 
tions,  sparing  not  their  blemishes  and  indica 
ting  how  an  effective  point  might  be  improved. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  *J 

But  as  yet  I  had  not  dared  to  hope  that  she 
loved,  or  was  even  in  train  to  love  me.  So  as 
yet  I  had  not  intended  to  speak  of  love  at 
all. 

But  one  day — one  Sunday  late  in  June — she 
proposed  to  sing  me  a  song  she  had  just  been 
learning. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  From  Le  Desert  of  Felicien  David,"  she  said, 
handing  me  the  music. 

It  was  the  "  O,  belle  nuit,  O,  soisplus  lentt" 
originally  written  for  tenor. 

"  I  should  hardly  think  it  would  suit  your 
voice,"  I  said,  running  over  the  music. 

"  Neither  did  I,  at  first  ;  but  listen,  any  way." 
And  she  began. 

Her  voice  had  never  been  in  better  order, 
had  never  been  more  resonant,  never  more 
electric.  Contrary  to  my  misgivings,  the  song 
suited  it  perfectly,  afforded  its  'cello  quality 
full  scope.  She  sang  with  an  enthusiasm,  a 
precision,  a  delicacy  of  shading,  that  carried  me 
away.  As  the  last  tender  note  melted  on  her 
lips,  she  swung  around  on  the  piano-stool  and 
looked  a  question  with  her  great,  dark,  serious 


a 8  AS  IT  WAS  W- KITTEN. 

eyes.  I  know  not  what  possessed  me.  A 
blindness  fell  upon  my  sight.  My  heart  gave  a 
mighty  bound.  In  another  instant  I  was  at 
her  side  and  had  caught  her — my  darling — in 
my  arms.  In  another  instant  she  was  sobbing 
her  life  out  upon  my  shoulder. 

By  and  by,  after  the  first  stress  of  our  emo 
tion  had  subsided,  I  mustered  voice  to  say, 
"  Then,  Veronika,  you  love  me  ?  " 

Her  hand  nestled  in  mine  by  way  of  answer. 
I  told  her  as  well   I  could    how  I    had  loved 
her  from  the  first. 

"  It  is  strange,"  she  said,  "  when  you  turned 
to  me  there  on  the  terrace  and  spoke,  it  was  as 
if  a  light  broke  into  my  life.  And  it  has  been 
the  same  ever  since — my  heart  has  been  full  of 
light.  Oh,  I  have  wanted  you  so  much  !  I  was 
afraid  you  did  not  care  for  me.  Why  have 
you  waited  so  long  ?  " 

No  need  of  putting  down  my  answer  nor  the 
rest  of  our  dialogue.  When  Mr.  Tikulski  came 
back  I  confessed  every  thing.  He  asked  but  a 
single  question,  imposed  but  a  single  condition. 
I  replied  that  I  earned  enough  by  my  teach 
ing  to  support  him  and  her  comfortably  and  to 


AS  IT  W 'AS  WRITTEN.  *f 

contribute  toward  the  maintenance  of  the 
widow  and  her  brood  in  Germany.  Further 
more,  I  had  solid  grounds  for  expecting  to  earn 
more  next  winter.  There  would  be  an  open 
ing  for  me  in  the  Symphony  and  Philharmonic 
Societies,  and  as  I  was  gaining  something  of  a 
reputation  I  might  reasonably  demand  a 
higher  price  for  my  lessons.  It  was  arranged 
that  we  should  be  married  the  first  week  in 
August. 

Our  journey  to  Hoboken  was  all  too  short 
that  night.  Never  had  horse-car  or  ferry-boat 
advanced  with  such  velocity  before.  As  we  left 
the  church  she  asked,  "  Did  you  notice  how 
my  voice  trembled  in  my  solo  ?  " 

"  It  only  added  to  its  effect,"  I  answered. 
"  Were  you  nervous  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  was  happy,  so  happy  that  I  could 
not  control  my  voice." 

Ah,  but  I  had  a  full  heart  as  I  walked  home 
that  night.  The  future  was  all  radiant — 
radiant  beyond  my  wildest  dream.  It  fright 
ened  me.  Such  perfect  bliss  seemed  scarcely 
possible,  seemed  too  great  and  glorious  to  last. 
And  yet  had  not  Veronika's  own  lips  promised 


30  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

it?  and  sealed  the  promise  with  a  kiss  that 
burned  still  where  she  had  placed  it  ?  It  was 
useless  for  me  to  go  to  bed ;  it  was  useless 
for  me  to  stay  in  the  house.  I  put  on  my  hat 
and  went  out  and  spent  the  night  pacing  up 
and  down  before  her  door.  And  as  soon 
as  the  morning  was  far  enough  advanced  I 
rang  the  bell  and  invited  myself  to  breakfast 
with  her  ;  and  after  breakfast  I  helped  her  to 
wash  the  dishes,  to  Mr.  Tikulski's  unutterable 
disapproval — it  was  "  unteeknified,"  he  said — 
and  after  that  I  accompanied  her  as  far  as  the 
first  house  where  she  had  to  give  a  lesson. 

While  writing  the  above  I  had  almost  for 
gotten.  Now  I  remember.  I  must  stop  for  a 
space  to  get  used  to  remembering  again  that 
she  is  dead. 


III. 

"\7ES,  she  is  dead.  That  is  the  truth.  If 
1  truth  is  good,  as  men  proclaim  it  to  be, 
then  goodness  is  intrinsically  cruel.  That 
Veronika  is  dead  is  the  truth  which  lies  like  a 
hot  coal  upon  my  consciousness,  and  goads  me 
along  as  I  tell  this  tale.  And  the  manner  of 
her  death  and  the  speediness  of  it — I  must  tell 
all. 

And  yet,  although  I  know  her  to  be  dead, 
although  I  repeat  to  myself  a  hundred  times  a 
day,  "  She  is  dead,  dead,  dead,"  and  although, 
God  help  me,  I  think  I  realize  too  well  that  she 
is  dead,  yet  to  this  day  Lean  scarcely  bring  my 
self  to  believe  it.  Truth  as  it  is,  it  seems  to  be 
in  utter  contradiction  to  the  rest  of  truth.  Even 
those  who  have  abandoned  faith  in  Religion, 
still  profess  faith  in  Nature,  saying,  "  Nature  is 
provident,  beneficent,  and  wise  ;  Nature  is  alive 
with  beauty."  And  at  most  times,  it  seems  as  if 
these  assertions  were  not  to  be  contested.  Yet, 


32  AS  IT  WAS 

how  can  they  be  true  when  Nature  contained 
the  possibility  of  Veronika's  death  ?  How  can 
Nature  be  wise,  and  yet  have  permitted  that 
maiden  life  to  be  destroyed  ? — provident, 
and  yet  have  flung  away  her  finest  product  ?— 
beneficent,  and  yet  have  torn  bleeding  from  my 
life  all  that  made  my  life  worth  living  ? — beau 
tiful,  and  yet  have  quenched  the  beautifying 
light  of  Veronika's  presence,  and  hushed  the 
voice  that  made  the  world  musical  ?  The  mere 
fact  that  Veronika  could  die  gives  the  lie  to 
the  Nature-worshipers.  In  the  light  of  that 
fact,  or  rather  in  the  darkness  of  it,  it  is 
mockery  to  sing  songs  of  praise  to  Nature. — 
That  is  why  it  is  so  hard  for  me  to  believe — to 
believe  a  thing  which  annihilates  the  harmony 
of  the  universe,  and  proclaims  the  optimism  of 
the  philosophers  to  be  a  delusion,  a  superstition. 
How  could  I  believe  my  senses  if  I  should  hear 
Christine  Nilsson  utter  a  hideous  false  note  ? 
So  is  it  hard  for  me  to  believe  that  Nature  has 
allowed  Veronika  to  die.  And  yet  it  is  the  truth, 
the  unmistakable,  irrevocable,  relentless  truth. 
I  suppose  all  lovers  are  happy :  but  it  does 
not  seem  possible  that  other  lovers  can  ever 


AS  IT   WAS  WRITTEX.  33 

have  had  such  unmitigated  happiness  as  ours 
was — happiness  so  keen  as  almost  to  be  a  pain. 
The  light  of  love  that  burst  suddenly  into  our 
lives,  and  filled  each  cranny  full  to  overflowing, 
was  so  pure  and  bright  as  almost  to  blind  us. 
The  happiness  was  all  the  keener,  the  light  all 
the  brighter,  because  of  the  hardship  and  the 
monotony  of  our  daily  tasks.  If  we  had  been 
rich,  if  we  had  had  leisure  and  friends  and  many 
resources  for  diversion,  then  most  likely  our 
delight  in  each  other  would  not  have  been  so 
great.  But  as  we  wore — poor,  hard  worked, 
and  alone  in  the  world — we  found  all  the  hap 
piness  we  had,  in  ourselves,  in  communing 
together ;  and  happiness  concentrated,  was  pro 
portionately  more  intense.  The  few  hours  in 
the  week  which  we  were  permitted  to  spend 
side  by  side  glittered  like  diamonds  against  the 
dull  background  of  the  rest.  And  we  improved 
them  to  the  full.  We  called  upon  each  fleeting 
moment  to  stay  and  perpetuate  itself  ;  and  we 
could  not  understand  how  Faust  had  had  to 
wait  so  many  years  before  he  could  do  the 
same.  The  season  was  divine,  clear  skies  and 
balmy  weather  day  after  day,  and  the  Park 


34  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

being  easily  accessible,  we  could  imagine  our 
selves  among  the  green  fields  of  the  country 
whenever  the  fancy  seized  us.  I  believe  that 
as  a  matter  of  fact  the  turf  of  the  common  was 
sadly  parched  and  brown  ;  but  we  were  not  criti 
cal  so  long  as  we  could  wander  over  it  hand 
in  hand.  Then,  our  characters  were  perfectly 
accorded  ;  their  unison  was  faultless.  Each 
called  for  the  other,  needed  the  other,  as  the 
dominant  chord  calls  for  and  needs  its  tonic.  We 
had  not  a  hope,  a  fear,  an  ambition,  an  aspiration, 
but  it  was  shared  equally  between  us.  Our  art 
was  a  mutual  passion  which  we  pursued  to 
gether.  When  Veronika  was  seated  at  the 
piano  and  I  stood  at  her  side  with  my  violin  at 
my  shoulder,  our  cup  of  contentment  was  full 
to  the  brim.  Nothing  more  was  wanting.  I 
remember,  one  evening,  in  the  middle  of  a 
phrase,  her  fingers  faltered  and  she  wheeled 
around  and  lifted  her  eyes  upon  my  face. — 
"  What  is  the  matter,  darling?"  I  asked. —  "  I 
only  want  to  look  at  you  to  realize  that  it 
isn't  a  dream,"  she  answered. — And  yet  she 
is  dead. 

June  and  half  July  had  wound  away ;  in  little 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  35 

more  than  a  fortnight  our  wedding  would  be 
celebrated.  The  night  was  sultry,  and  she  and 
I  sat  together  by  an  open  window.  Her  uncle 
was  absent :  an  idea  had  come  to  him  just  before 
dinner,  she  explained,  and  according  to  his 
custom  he  had  gone  out  to  walk  the  streets 
until  he  had  mastered  it.  We  were  by  no 
means  sorry  to  be  alone.  We  had  plenty  to  talk 
about ;  but  even  without  talking  it  was  marvel- 
ously  pleasant  to  sit  together  and  think  the 
happy  thoughts  that  filled  our  minds  and  listen 
to  the  subdued  sounds  of  human  life  that  came 
in  by  the  window. 

Veronika  had  shown  me  some  of  her  bridal 
outfit,  telling  how  she  had  worked  at  it  in  her 
short  snatches  of  leisure.  We  took  as  much 
pleasure  in  the  contemplation  of  this  modest 
little  trousseau  as  though  it  had  boasted  all  the 
rubies  and  silken  fabrics  of  the  Indies.  This 
set  us  to  talking  of  the  future  and  making 
plans.  And  afterward  we  talked  of  the  past. 
We  spoke  of  how  strange  it  was  that 
we  should  have  come  together  in  the  way  we 
had — by  the  merest  accident,  as  it  seemed  ; 
and  we  doubted  if  it  was  indeed  an  accident, 


36  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

if  destiny  had  not  purposely  guided  our  footsteps 
that  memorable  night. — "Why,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  if  uncle  and  I  had  been  but  a  few  moments 
earlier  or  later,  we  never  should  have  seen  each 
other  at  all.  Think  of  the  terrible  risk  we  ran  ! 
Think  if  we  had  never  known  each  other!"  and 
her  fingers  tightened  around  mine. 

"And  then,"  I  went  on,  "that  I  should  have 
spoken  to  you,  a  strange  lady,  and  that  you 
should  have  answered !  " 

"  It  seemed  perfectly  natural  for  me  to 
answer;  I  had  done  so  before  I  stopped  to 
think.  But  afterward  I  was  ashamed  ;  I  was 
afraid  you  might  think  it  indelicate.  But,  some 
how,  the  words  spoke  themselves.  I  am  glad 
of  it  now." 

"  I  do  believe  God's  hand  was  in  it !  I  do 
believe  it  was  all  pre-ordained  in  heaven.  I 
believe  that  our  Guardian  Angel  prompted  me 
to  speak  and  you  to  answer.  It  can't  be  that  we, 
who  were  made  for  each- other,  were  left  to  find 
it  out  by  a  mere  perilous  chance — it  isn't 
credible." 

"  But  nobody  except  myself — not  even  you, 
can  understand  how  like  a  miracle  it  all  is  to  me, 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  37 

because  nobody  else  can  know  how  much  I 
needed  you.  Nobody  else  can  know  how  dreary 
and  empty  my  life  was  before  you  came,  or 
how  completely  you  have  filled  it  and  glad 
dened  it." 

Here  we  stopped  talking  for  a  while. 

By  and  by  she  resumed,  "  I  think  that  music 
differs  from  the  other  arts.  I  think  the  musi 
cian  instinctively  needs  a  companion  worker. 
I  know  that  in  the  old  days  when  I  would  play 
or  sing,  my  heart  seemed  to  cry  out  continually 
for  some  one  to  come  and  share  its  feeling. 
Perhaps  this  was  because  music  is  the  most  emo 
tional  of  the  arts,  the  most  sympathetic. 
Really,  sometimes  I  could  not  bear  to  touch 
the  piano,  the  pain  of  being  alone  was  so  acute. 
Of  course  I  had  my  uncle,  a  most  thorough 
musician ;  but  I  wanted  somebody  who  would 
feel  precisely  as  I  did,  and  he  did  not.  He  always 
analyzed  and  criticised,  never  allowed  himself 
to  be  carried  away,  never  forgot  the  intellectual 
side  of  the  things  I  would  play.  But  now — now 
that  you  are  with  me,  my  music  is  a  constant 
source  of  joy.  And  then,  the  thought  that  we 
are  going  to  work  together  all  our  lives,  the 


38  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

thought  of  the  music  we  are  going  to  make 
together — oh,  it  is  too  great,  it  takes  my  breath 
away  !  I  don't  dare  to  believe  it.  I  am  afraid 
all  the  time  that  something  will  happen  to  pre 
vent  it  coming  true." 

Again  for  a  while  we  did  not  speak. 

Again  by  and  by  she  resumed,  "  And  then 
you  can  not  know  how  lonely  I  was  in  other 
ways,  how  I  longed  for  a  little  affection,  a  lit 
tle  tenderness.  Of  course  uncle  is  very  good, 
has  always  been  very  good  to  me ;  but  do  you 
think  it  was  ungrateful  for  me  to  want  a  little 
more  affection  than  he  gave  me?  I  mean  a 
little  more  manifest  affection  ;  because  I  know 
that  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  loves  me 
very  warmly.  But  I  longed  for  somebody  to 
show  a  little  care  for  me,  and  uncle  is  very 
undemonstrative — he  is  so  absorbed  in  his 
symphony,  and  then  sometimes  he  is  exceed 
ingly  severe.  When  I  would  get  home  at  night 
it  was  so  dreary  not  to  have  any  one  to  speak 
to  about  the  trials  of  the  day — not  to  have  any 
one  who  would  sympathize  and  understand. 
You  see,  other  girls  have  their  mothers  or  their 
brothers  and  sisters  and  friends :  but  I  had 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  39 

nobody  except  my  uncle  ;  and  he  was  so  much 
older,  and  regarded  things  so  differently,  that 
I  do  not  think  it  was  unnatural  for  me  to  wish 
for  some  one  else.  Besides,  I  had  so  much 
responsibility ;  I  felt  so  weak  and  helpless. 
I  thought,  what  if  something  should  happen  to 
my  uncle !  or  what  if  I  should  get  sick  and  be 
unable  to  teach !  Oh,  the  rest  and  security 
that  you  brought  to  me !  " 

What  I  replied — a  mass  of -broken  sentences 
— was  too  incoherent  to  bear  recording. 

"  And  then,  the  mere  physical  fatigue — day 
after  day,  work,  work,  work,  and  never  any 
respite.  Of  course,  every  body  has  to  work, 
but  almost  every  body  has  a  holiday  now  and 
then  ;  and  I  never  had  a  single  day  that  I  could 
call  all  my  own.  In  winter  it  was  hardest.  No 
matter  how  tired  I  was,  I  had  to  be  up  and  off 
giving  lessons  even  if  the  snow  was  ankle  deep. 
And  the  ice  in  the  river  made  it  such  hard 
work  getting  to  Hoboken,  made  the  journey  so 
very  long.  I  had  to  do  the  housework  too, 
you  know.  We  couldn't  afford  to  keep  a  serv 
ant,  on  account  of  the  money  we  had  to  send 
abroad.  When  I  would  come  home  all  fagged 


40  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

out  I  had  to  clean  the  rooms  and  cook  the 
dinner ;  though  I  am  afraid  that  sometimes  I 
did  not  more  than  half  do  my  duty.  Some 
times  I  would  let  the  dust  lie  for  a  week  on  the 
mantle-piece.  And  every  day  was  just  the  same 
as  the  day  that  had  gone  before.  It  was  like 
traveling  in  a  circle.  When  I  would  go  to  bed 
at  night  my  weariness  would  be  all  the  harder 
because  of  the  thought, '  To-morrow  will  be  just 
the  same,  the  same  round  of  lessons,  the  same 
dead  fatigue,  the  same  monotonous  drudgery 
from  beginning  to  end.'  And  as  I  saw  no  prom 
ise  of  change,  as  I  thought  it  would  be  the 
same  all  my  life,  I  could  not  help  asking  what 
the  use  was  of  having  been  born.  Wasn't  I  a 
dreadful  grumbler?  Yet,  what  could  I  do?  I 
think  it  is  natural  when  one  is  young  to  long 
for  something  to  look  forward  to,  for  just  a  lit 
tle  pleasure  and  just  a  little  companionship. 
But  then  you  came,  and  every  thing  was 
altered.  Do  you  remember  in  the  Creation  the 
wonderful  awakening  one  feels  when  they  sing, 
'And  the  Lord  said,  Let  there  be  light/  very 
low,  and  then  with  a  mighty  burst  of  sound, 
4  And  there  was  LIGHT  ?'  Do  you  remember 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  41 

how  one's  heart  leaps  and  seems  to  grow  big  in 
one's  breast  ?  It  was  like  that  when  you  came 
to  me.  I  used  to  wonder  why  I  had  ever  felt 
unhappy  or  discontented.  The  mere  prospect 
of  seeing  you  at  the  week's  end  made  my  heart 
sing  from  morning  to  night.  It  gave  a  motive, 
an  object,  to  my  life — made  me  feel  that  I  was 
working  to  a  purpose,  that  I  should  have  my 
reward.  I  had  been  growing  hard  and  indiffer 
ent,  even  indifferent  to  music.  But  now  I 
began  to  love  my  music  more  than  ever:  and 
no  matter  how  tired  I  might  be,  when  I  had  a 
moment  of  leisure  I  would  sit  down  and  prac 
tice  so  as  to  be  able  to  play  well  for  you. 
Music  seemed  to  express  all  the  unutterable 
feeling  that  you  inspired  me  with.  One  day  I 
had  sung  the  Ave  Maria  of  Cherubini  to  you, 
and  you  said,  '  It  is  so  religious — it  expresses 
precisely  the  emotions  one  experiences  in  a 
church.'  But  for  me  it  expressed  rather  the 
emotions  a  woman  has  when  she  is  in  the  pres 
ence  of  the  man  she  loves.  All  the  time  I  had 
no  idea  that  you  would  ever  feel  in  the  same 
way  toward  me." 

My  kisses  silenced  her.     Afterward  she  sang 


42  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

from  Pergolese's  Stabat  Mater,  and  played  a 
medley  of  bits  from  Chopin  :  until,  looking  at 
my  watch,  I  saw  it  was  nearing  midnight. 
Time  for  me  to  go  away.  But  her  uncle  had 
not  yet  come  home.  I  did  not  like  to  leave  her 
alone.  I  said  so. 

"  Oh,  that  is  nothing,"  she  explained.  "  It 
always  happens  when  he  has  one  of  his  ideas. 
Very  likely  he  won't  come  in  till  morning.  I 
am  quite  accustomed  to  it,  and  not  a  bit  afraid." 

"  In  that  event,"  I  thought,  "  I  certainly 
ought  to  go.  It  may  embarrass  her,  my  staying 
so  late ;  and  besides,  she  needs  the  sleep." 

I  started  to  say  good-by.  Our  parting  was 
hard.  Again  and  again,  as  I  reached  the  door, 
I  turned  back  and  began  anew.  But  at  last  I 
found  myself  in  the  street.  I  looked  up  at  the 
parlor  window,  and  remained  on  the  curbstone 
until  I  saw  her  close  the  sash  and  pull  the 
shade,  and  the  light  being  extinguished,  knew 
that  she  had  gone  to  her  bedroom.  Then  I 
set  my  face  toward  home. 

I  had  never  loved  her  as  I  loved  her  now. 
Every  lover  will  understand  that  what  she  had 
said  during  the  evening  had  added  fuel  to  the 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  43 

fire.  My  tenderness  for  her  had  increased  a 
hundredfold.  All  my  life  should  be  dedicated 
to  soothing  her  and  protecting  her  and  making 
her  glad.  The  tired  child  should  find  rest  and 
peace  in  my  arms.  To  think  of  how  she  had 
been  exposed  to  the  noise  and  the  heat  and  the 
glare  of  the  fierce  work-a-day  world  !  Ah, 
Veronika,  Veronika,  I  wanted,  late  as  it  was,  to 
return  and  pour  out  the  yearning  of  my  spirit 
at  your  feet.  Why  had  I  left  her  at  all  ?  Each 
heart-beat  seemed  to  speak  her  name.  And 
when  the  knowledge  that  in  a  fortnight  we 
were  really  going  to  be  married,  that  I  was 
really  going  to  have  the  right  to  be  to  her  what 
I  wished — when  that  knowledge  flashed  in 
upon  me,  I  had  to  turn  away  lest  it  should 
overwhelm  me.  I  could  not  contemplate  it 
any  more  than  I  could  have  gazed  straight 
upon  the  sun. — Finally  I  fell  asleep  and  dreamed 
that  I  was  seated  at  her  side,  caressing  her 
brow  and  emptying  my  life  into  her  eyes. 

I  awoke  next  morning  with  a  start.  My  first 
sensation  was  one  of  anxiety  and  unrest.  As  I 
dressed,  this  feeling  intensified.  I  had  a  pre- 


44  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

sentiment  that  something  had  gone  wrong..  I 
tried  to  reason  it  away.  The  more  I  reasoned, 
the  stronger  it  waxed.  I  wanted  to  see  her 
and  satisfy  myself  that  every  thing  was  right. 
It  was  eight  o'clock.  She  would  leave  for  her 
lessons  in  half  an  hour.  Luckily  to-day  my 
own  engagements  did  not  begin  till  ten.  If  I 
hurried,  I  should  be  in  time  to  catch  her.  I 
put  on  my  hat  and  walked  at  top-speed  toward 
Fifty-first  street. 

Arrived  at  the  door  of  the  apartment-house, 
my  worry  subsided  as  abruptly  and  with  as 
little  provocation  as  it  had  sprung  up.  Indeed, 
I  laughed  as  I  remembered  it.  "  Of  course,"  I 
said,  "nothing  is  the  matter.  Still  I  am  not 
sorry  to  have  come." 

"  Has  Miss  Pathzuol  gone  out  yet?"  I  asked 
the  janitress  who  let  me  in. 

"  I  have  not  seen  her,"  she  answered.  '  But 
she  may  have  done  so  without  my  noticing." 

I  ran  up  the  stairs  and  rang  Veronika's  bell. — 
No  response. — I  rang  again. — Again  no  re 
sponse. — A  third  ring,  with  waning  hope  of 
success  :  and,  "  So,"  I  thought,  "  I  am  too  late." 

Disappointed,  I  was  retracing  my  steps  dowa 


AS  JT  WAS  WRITTEN.  4$ 

the  staircase.  I  stood  aside  to  let  some  one 
pass. 

"  Ah,  how  do  you  do  ? "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Tikulski.  "What  brings  you  out  so  early?" 

I  explained. 

"  Never  mind,"  he  said,  "  but  come  back  with 
me  and  have  a  cup  of  coffee.  I  have  been  out 
all  night,  struggling  with  an  obstinate  little 
aria.  I  will  play  it  for  you." 

He  unlocked  the  door.  The  parlor  was  dark. 
The  shades  had  not  yet  been  drawn.  As  he 
sent  them  flying  up  with  a  screech,  my  heart 
sank.  Every  thing  was  just  as  we  had  left  it 
last  night ;  but  it  was  cheerless  and  empty  with 
her  away.  There  lay  the  Chopin  still  open  on 
the  music  rest.  There  were  our  two  chairs 
still  close  together  as  we  had  placed  them. 

Tikulski  went  after  the  coffee  apparatus; 
presently  returned,  arranged  it  on  the  table, 
and  applied  a  match  to  the  lamp. 

"  While  we  wait  for  the  water  to  boil,"  he 
said,  "I  will  give  you  the  result  of  my  night's 
labor.  I  composed  it  walking  up  and  down 
under  the  trees  in  tht  park,  so  that  they — the  trees 
— might  claim  it  for  their  fruit !  Ha-ha  !  A  heav 


46  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

enly  night  :  the  sky  could  scarcely  hold  the 
stars,  there  were  so  many  ;  but  terribly  warm." 

Again  he  went  away — to  fetch  his  instrument. 

He  was  gone  a  long  while.  The  water  began 
to  boil — boiled  loudly  and  more  loudly.  A 
dense  stream  of  vapor  gushed  from  the  nozzle 
of  the  pot.  Still  he  remained. 

At  last  I  lost  patience.  Stepping  to  the 
threshold,  I  called  his  name.  At  first  he  did 
not  answer. 

"  Mr.  Tikulski !  "  I  repeated. 

I  seemed  to  hear — no,  certainly  did  hear — 
his  voice,  low,  inarticulate,  down  at  the  other 
end  of  the  hallway.  It  alarmed  me.  Had  he 
met  with  an  accident  ?  hurt  himself  ?  fainted 
after  the  night's  vigil  ?  paralysis  ?  apoplexy  ? 
I  hastened  toward  him,  entered  the  room 
whence  his  voice  had  sounded.  There  he  stood. 
He  stood  in  the  center  of  the  floor,  immobile 
as  a  statue,  his  face  livid,  his  attitude  that  of  a 
man  who  has  seen  a  ghost. 

"  For  God's  sake,  what  has  happened  ?  "  I 
cried. 

He  appeared  not  to  hear.  I  repeated  my 
question. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  47 

He  roused  himself.  A  tremor  swept  over 
him.  A  painful  rattling  was  audible  in  his 
throat.  He  raised  his  arm  heavily  and  pointed. 
"  L-look,"  he  gasped. 

I  looked.     How  can  L  tell  what  I  saw? 


IV 

AND  yet  I  must  tell  it,  though  the  telling 
consume  me  like  a  flame. 

I  saw  a  bed  and  Veronika  lying  on  it,  face 
downward.  She  was  dressed  in  her  customary 
black  gown.  I  supposed  she  was  asleep.  I 
supposed  she  was  asleep,  for  one  short  moment. 
That  was  the  last  moment  of  my  life.  For  then 
the  truth  burst  upon  me,  fell  upon  me  like  a 
shaft  from  out  the  skies  and  hurled  me  into 
hell.  I  saw — not  that  she  was  dead  only.  If 
she  had  only  died  it  would  be  different.  I  saw 
— merciful  God ! — I  saw  that  she  was  murdered. 

Oh,  of  course  I  would  not,  could  not,  believe 
it.  Of  course  it  was  a  dream,  a  nightmare,  an 
hallucination,  from  which  I  should  presently 
awake.  Of  course  the  thing  was  impossible, 
could  not  be.  Of  course  I  flung  myself  upon 
the  bed  at  her  side  and  crushed  her  between 
my  arms  and  covered  her  with  kisses  and  called 
and  cried  to  her  to  move,  to  speak,  to  come 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  4f 

back  to  life.  And  although  her  hands  were 
icy  cold  and  her  body  rigid  and  her  face  as 
white  as  marble,  and  although — ah,  no  !  I  may 
leave  out  the  horrible  detail — still  I  could  not 
believe.  I  could  not  believe — yet  how  could 
I  deny  ?  There  she  lay,  my  sweetheart,  my  prom 
ised  bride,  deaf  to  my  voice,  blind  to  my  pres 
ence,  unmoved  by  my  despair,  beyond  the  reach 
of  my  strongest  love,  never  to  care  for  me 
again — Veronika,  my  tender,  sad  Veronika — oh, 
she  lay  there,  dead,  murdered  !  And  still,  with 
the  knife-hilt  staring  at  me  like  the  face  of 
Satan,  still  I  could  not  believe.  It  was  the  fact, 
the  unalterable  fact,  the  fact  that  extinguished 
the  light  of  the  sun  and  stars  and  flooded  the 
universe  with  blackness :  and  still,  in  spite  of  it, 
I  called  to  her  and  crushed  her  in  my  embrace 
and  kissed  her  and  caressed  her  and  was  sure 
it  could  not  be  true.  And  meantime  people 
came  and  filled  the  room. 

I  did  not  see  the  people.  Only  in  a  vague 
way  I  knew  that  they  were  there,  heard  the 
murmur  of  their  voices,  as  if  they  were  a  long 
distance  off.  I  had  no  senses  left.  I  could 
neither  see  nor  hear  distinctly.  My  eyes  were 
4 


50  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

burned  by  a  fierce  red  fire.  My  ears  were  full 
of  the  uproar  of  a  thousand  devils.  But  I 
knew  that  people  had  intruded  upon  us.  I  knew 
that  I  hated  them  because  they  would  not  leave 
us  two  alone.  I  remember  I  rose  and  faced 
them  and  cursed  them  and  told  them  to  be  gone. 
And  then  I  took  her  in  my  arms  again  and 
pressed  her  hard  to  me  and  forgot  every  thing 
but  that  she  would  not  answer. 

Gradually,  however,  nature  was  coming  to 
my  rescue.  Gradually  I  seemed  to  be  sinking 
into  a  stupor — had  no  sensation  left  except  a 
numb,  bruised  feeling  from  head  to  foot — forgot 
what  the  matter  was,  forgot  even  Veronika, 
simply  existed  in  a  state  of  half  conscious 
wretchedness.  The  first  frenzy  of  grief  had 
spent  itself.  The  very  immensity  of  the  pain 
I  had  suffered  acted  as  an  opiate,  exhausted 
and  rendered  me  insensible.  I  heard  the  voices 
of  the  people  as  a  soldier  who  is  wounded  may 
still  hear  something  of  the  din  of  battle. 

I  don't  know  how  long  I  had  lain  thus  when 
I  became  aware  that  a  hand  was  placed  upon 
my  shoulder.  Some  one  shook  me  roughly  and 
said,  "  Get  up  and  come  away."  Passively,  I 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  51 

ooeyed.  "Sit  down,"  said  the  same  person, 
pushing  me  into  a  chair.  I  sat  down  and  re 
lapsed  into  my  stupor. 

Again  I  don't  know  how  long  it  was  before 
they  disturbed  me  for  a  second  time.  Two  or 
three  men  were  standing  in  front  of  me.  One 
of  them  was  in  uniform.  Slowly  I  recognized 
that  he  was  an  officer,  a  captain  of  police.  He 
spoke.  I  heard  what  he  said  without  under 
standing,  as  one  who  is  half  asleep  hears  what 
is  said  at  his  bedside.  This  much  only  I 
gathered,  that  he  wanted  me  to  go  with  him 
somewhere.  I  was  too  much  dazed  to  care 
what  I  did  or  what  was  done  with  me.  He 
took  my  arm  and  led  me  away.  He  led  me  into 
the  street.  There  was  a  a  great  crowd.  I  shut 
my  eyes  and  tottered  along  at  his  side.  We 
entered  a  house.  Somebody  asked  me  a  lot 
of  questions — my  name  and  where  I  lived  and 
so  forth — to  which  my  lips  framed  mechanical 
answers.  I  can  remember  nothing  more. 

When  consciousness  revived  I  v/as  made  to 
understand  that  I  had  fainted. 

"  But  where  am  I  ?  What  has  happened  ?  " 
I  asked,  trying  to  remember. 


5*  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

The  police-captain  explained.  "  Mr.  NeiK 
man,"  he  said,  "  I  have  made  all  the  inquiry 
that  is  as  yet  possible,  and  the  result  is  that  I 
deem  i,t  my  duty  to  take  you  in  custody.  I 
prefer  no  charge,  but  I  believe  I  am  bound  to 
hold  you  for  the  inquest.  The  hour  of  your 
leaving  her  last  night,  the  time  that  Miss  Path- 
zuol  has  apparently  been  dead,  and  the  fact  that 
you  were  the  last  person  known  to  have 
been  in  her  company,  make  it  incumbent  upon 
me  to  place  you  under  arrest." 

I  pondered  his  words.  Every  thing  came 
back.  I  was  accused,  or  at  least  suspected,  of 
having  murdered  Veronika — // 

I  felt  no  emotion.  I  was  stunned  as  yet,  like 
a  man  who  has  received  a  blow  between  the 
eyes.  My  brain  had  turned  to  stone.  I  repeated 
over  to  myself  all  that  the  captain  had  said.  The 
words  wrought  no  effect.  I  did  not  even  ex 
perience  pain  as  I  thought  of  heru  She  is  dead  ? 
I  queried.  They  were  three  vapid  syllables.  My 
senses  I  had  recovered — I  could  see  and  hear 
plainly  now — could  remember  the  events  of  the 
morning  in  detail  and  in  their  correct  order. 
But  somehow  I  had  lost  all  capacity  for  feeling. 


V. 

AND  so  it  continued  throughout  the  inquest 
and  throughout  the  trial — for,  yes,  they 
tried  me  for  my  sweetheart's  murder.  I  ate, 
drank,  slept,  and  answered  the  questions  that 
were  put  to  me,  all  in  a  dazed,  dull  way,  but 
suffered  no  pain,  no  surprise,  no  indignation, 
had  no  more  sensation  than  a  dead  man.  That 
Veronika  had  been  killed,  and  that  I  was  ac 
cused  of  having  killed  her,  were  the  facts  which 
I  heard  told  and  told  again  from  morning  till 
night  each  day ;  yet  I  had  not  the  least  con 
ception  of  what  they  signified.  I  was  too 
stunned  and  benumbed  to  realize. 

The  first  day  passed  by,  and  the  second  and 
the  third,  every  one  of  them  busy  with  events 
that  meant  life  or  death  for  me  :  yet  I  took  no 
notice.  When  left  to  myself,  invariably  I 
closed  my  eyes,  and  the  stupor  settled  over  my 
senses  like  a  cloud  of  smoke.  When  aroused, 
I  did  whatever  was  required  as  passively  as  an 
automaton.  I  remember  those  first  few  days 


54  AS  IT  WAS  WXITTEN. 

as  one  remembers  a  hateful  dream.  I  remem 
ber  being  driven  in  a  dark,  noisy  vehicle 
from  the  station-house  to  the  city  prison,  and 
having  in  the  latter  place  a  cell  assigned  to  me 
which  was  destined  to  serve  as  my  home  for 
many  weeks.  I  remember  making  several  trips, 
handcuffed  to  my  custodian,  from  the  jail  to 
the  office  where  the  inquest  was  held  and 
back :  but  my  only  recollection  of  the  inquest 
itself  is  a  confused  one — a  crowded,  foul-smell' 
ing  room,  a  chaos  of  faces  and  voices,  endless 
talking,  endless  questioning  of  myself  by  men 
who  were  strangers  to  me.  I  remember  that 
by  and  by  these  journeys  came  to  an  end :  but 
what  the  verdict  of  the  inquest  was  I  do  not 
remember — I  do  not  think  I  troubled  myself 
to  ask  at  the  time.  Then  I  remember  that  after 
some  days  spent  alone  in  my  cell  one  of  the 
keepers  said,  "  You  are  indicted,"  and  inquired 
whether  I  wished  to  communicate  with  my 
attorney.  Indicted?  My  attorney?  I  did  not 
comprehend.  I  do  not  remember  what  I 
answered. 

Once  the  door  of  my  cell  opened,  and  they 
brought    in   a   trunk    and    a   violin-case    and 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  55 

placed  them  on  the  floor  at  the  foot  of  my  cot. 
I  recognized  these  for  my  own  property. 
Mechanically  I  took  out  my  violin  and  drew 
forth  one  long,  clear  note.  That  note  was  like 
a  sudden  flash  of  light.  For  a  single  inslant 
the  desolation  to  which  my  world  had  been 
reduced  became  visible  in  all  its  ghastliness. 
For  a  single  instant  I  realized  my  position, 
realized  that  Veronika  was  dead,  and  the  rest. 
The  truth  pierced  my  consciousness  like  an 
arrow  and  made  my  body  quake  with  pain. 
But  immediately  the  darkness  settled  over  me 
again,  the  stupor  returned. 

Slowly,  however,  this  stupor  was  changing 
its  character.  By  degrees,  so  far  as  my  mere 
thinking  faculties  were  involved,  it  began  to 
be  dissipated.  By  degrees  my  mind  struggled 
out  of  it.  I  began"to  notice  and  to  understand 
things,  and  was  able  to  converse  and  to  appre 
ciate  what  was  said.  But  over  my  feelings  it 
retained  its  sway.  Although  I  was  quite  com 
petent  now  to  follow  the  explanations  of  my 
lawyer — how  Veronika  had  been  murdered  and 
how  and  why  I  was  suspected  as  the  murderer 
— still  I  had  no  feeling  of  any  sort  about 


5$  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

the  matter.  I  might  have  been  a  log  of 
wood. 

My  lawyer  had  presented  himself  one  day 
and  volunteered  his  services.  I  had  accepted 
them  without  even  inquiring  his  name. 

"  Don't  you  remember  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

I  looked  at  his  face  but  could  not  recall 
having  seen  it  before. 

"My  name  is  Epstein,"  he  said.  "We  went 
to  school  together." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  remember,"  I  replied. 

Regularly  each  day  he  came  and  reported 
the  progress  of  affairs. 

"  They  are  building  up  a  strong  case  against 
you,"  he  said.  "  Our  only  hope  lies  in  an  alibi." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  I  inquired  dully. 

He  explained  ;  and  continued,  "  Of  course 
the  prosecution  won't  tell  "me  what  tack  they 
mean  to  pursue,  but  from  several  little  things 
that  have  leaked  out  I  infer  that  they  have  a 
pretty  strong  case.  Now,  at  what  hour  did 
you  leave  Miss  Pathzuol  that  night?" 

"  At  about  midnight." 

"And  went  directly  home?" 

"  Directly  home." 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  57 

"After  entering  your  house  did  you  meet 
any  of  the  other  occupants?  any  of  your  fel 
low-lodgers  ?  " 

"I  don't  remember." 

"  But  you  must  make  an  effort  to  remember. 
Try." 

"  I  tell  you,  I  don't  remember,"  I  repeated. 
His  persistence  irritated  me. 

"  You  appear  to  take  as  little  interest  in  thic 
case  as  though  it  were  the  life  of  a  dog  hanging 
in  the  scales  instead  of  your  own,"  he  said  ; 
and  that  was  the  truth. 

Next  day  his  face  wore  a  somber  expression. 

"This  is  too  bad,"  he  cried.  "  I  have  inter 
viewed  your  landlady  and  your  fellow-lodgers, 
and  not  one  of  them  can  swear  to  your  alibi.  I 
know  you  are  innocent,  but  I  don't  see  how  I 
am  to  prove  it." 

At  last  the  trial  began. 

I  sat  through  that  trial,  the  most  indifferent 
person  in  the  court-room.  I  heard  the  testi 
mony  of  the  witnesses  and  the  speeches  of  the 
lawyers  simply  because  I  was  close  at  hand 
and  could  not  help  it.  But  I  was  the  least  in 
terested  of  the  many  auditors,  the  least  curious 


58  AS  IT  W 'AS  WRITTEN. 

as  to  the  result.  Yet,  stolid,  indifferent,  in 
attentive  as  I  was,  every  detail  of  the  trial  is 
stamped  upon  my  memory  in  indelible  hues. 
Here  is  the  story  of  it. 

The  first  day  was  used  in  securing  a  jury. 

The  second  day  commenced  with  an  address 
— an  "  opening  "  they  called  it — by  the  counsel 
for  the  prosecution.  He  told  quietly  who 
Veronika  was,  how  she  had  lived  alone  with  her 
uncle,  and  how  on  the  morning  of  the  1 3th  July 
they  had  found  her,  murdered.  He  said  that  a 
remarkable  train  of  circumstantial  evidence 
pointed  to  one  man  as  the  murderer.  Then  he 
raised  his  voice  and  dwelt  upon  the  blackness 
of  that  man's  soul.  Then  he  faced  around  and 
bade  the  prisoner  stand  up.  Shaking  his  finger 
at  me,  "Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  he  thundered, 
"  there  is  the  man." 

The  first  witness  was  Tikulski.  He  testified 
to  the  discovery  of  the  murder  in  the  manner  al 
ready  known  ;  told  how  he  had  been  absent  all 
night  that  night ;  and  explained  the  nature  of 
the  relations  that  subsisted  between  Veronika 
and  myself. 

"  When  you  got  home  on  the  morning  of  the 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN:  59 

I3th  in  what  condition  was  the  door  of  your 
apartment?"  asked  the  district-attorney. 

"  In  its  usual  condition." 

"That  is  to  say,  locked?" 

"  Precisely." 

"  It  had  not  been  broken  open  or  tampered 
with?" 

"  Not  so  far  as  I  could  see." 

"That's  all." 

On  cross-examination  he  said  that  he  had 
never  heard  a  harsh  word  pass  between  Veroni- 
ka  and  myself,  that  on  the  contrary  I  had  given 
him  every  reason  for  considering  me  a  most 
tender  and  devoted  lover. 

"  And  when  made  aware  of  the  death  of  his 
betrothed,"  pursued  my  lawyer,  "  how  did  Mr. 
Neuman  conduct  himself?" 

"  He  acted  like  a  crazy  man — like  one  par 
alyzed  by  a  tremendous  blow." 

"  You  can  go,  Mr.  Tikulski,"  said  my  lawyer. 

"  But  I  wish  to  say,"  began  Tikulski,  "  that  I 
do  not  believe " 

"  Stop,"  cried  the  prosecutor.  "  Your  honor, 
I  object  to  any  expression  of  opinion  by  the 
witness." 


60  AS  IT  W 'AS  WRITTEN. 

"  No  matter  about  what  you  don't  believe/' 
said  the  Judge  to  Tikulski. 

«  But " 

"  But  you  must  hold  your  tongue,"  imperi 
ously.  "  You  can  go." 

The  old  man  left  the  stand  and  elbowed  his 
way  to  my  side. 

"  What  I  wished  to  say  was,"  he  whispered 
into  my  ear,  "  that  I  believe  you  are  as  innocent 
as  I  myself.  It  is  outrageous,  this  trial.  They 
compelled  me  to  testify.  But  you  must  under 
stand  that  I  am  sure  of  your  innocence.  I 
don't  know  why  they  hushed  me  up." 

Meanwhile  the  captain  of  police  had  suc 
ceeded  him,  and  sworn  to  having  visited  the 
scene  of  the  crime  and  to  having  placed  the 
prisoner  under  arrest. 

"  Captain,"  said  the  district-attorney,  "  here 
is  a  key.  Have  you  seen  it  before?"  handing 
a  key  to  the  witness. 

"  I  have,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Tell  us  when  and  where." 

"  I  took  it  from  the  prisoner  on  the  morning 
of  his  arrest." 

"  What  further  can  you  say  about  it  ?  " 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  _l\ 

"  Subsequently  it  was  identified  as  a  key  to 
the  apartments  occupied  by  the  deceased." 

"Did  you  try  it  yourself?" 

"  I  did.     It  fitted  the  lock." 

"  How  is  this  ?  "  Epstein  asked  me.  "  How 
did  you  come  by  that  key  ?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  I  answered.  "I 
don't  remember  ever  having  had  it  in  my 
possession." 

"But  it  is  an  ugly  circumstance,  and  must  be 
accounted  for." 

"  Oh,  what  difference  does  it  make  ?"  I  re 
torted  petulantly.  "  Leave  me  alone." 

"  A  few  little  trifles  like  this  may  make  the 
difference  of  your  neck,"  muttered  Epstein, 
and  he  looked  disturbed. 

"Captain,"  continued  the  district-attorney, 
"  just  one  thing  more.  Do  you  recognize  this 
handkerchief?" 

"Yes;  it  was  found  in  the  pocket  of  the 
prisoner  when  he  was  searched  at  the  station- 
house." 

My  lawyer  got  hold  of  the  handkerchief  and 
exhibited  it  to  me.  It  was  stained  dull  brown. 
"  This  is  blood,"  he  said.  "  How  did  it  happen  ?  " 


62  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"  I  don't  know,  I  haven't  an  idea,"  was  the 
utmost  I  could  respond.  Epstein  looked  more 
uneasy  than  before. 

"  That's  enough,  Captain,"  said  the  prosecu 
tor. 

"  But  before  you  leave  the  stand,"  put  in 
Epstein,  "kindly  tell  us  what  the  prisoner's 
conduct  was  from  the  time  you  took  charge  of 
the  premises  down  to  the  time  you  locked 
him  up." 

"  At  first  he  acted  as  though  he  was  crazy : 
raved  and  carried  on  like  a  madman.  After 
ward  he  became  quiet  and  sort  of  dull.  At 
the  station-house  he  fainted  away." 

"  Didn't  act  as  though  he  liked  it — as  though 
the  death  of  Miss  Pathzuol  was  a  thing  that 
pleased  him  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  on  the  contrary.  He  acted  as 
though  it  had  been  a  great  shock  to  him." 

"You  can  go." 

Next  came  a  physician. 

He  said  he  was  a  police-surgeon.  At  about 
nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  July  I3th  he 
had  been  summoned  to  the  house  of  the  de 
cedent  ;  had  examined  the  body  and  satisfied 


AS  77   WAS  WRITTEN.  63 

himself  as  to  the  mode  of  death.  There  were 
three  separate  knife-wounds.  These  he  pro 
ceeded  to  describe  in  technical  language.  Not 
one  of  them  could  have  been  self-inflicted  ;  any 
one  of  them  was  sufficient  to  have  caused  im 
mediate  death. 

"  Dr.  Merrill,"  inquired  the  prosecutor,  "  how 
long — how  many  hours — prior  to  your  arrival 
must  the  crime  have  been  perpetrated  ?  " 

"  From  seven  to  ten  hours." 

"  So  that—?  " 

"So  that  the  crime  must  have  been  perpe 
trated  between  eleven  and  two  o'clock." 

"  Good. — Now,  Doctor,  here  is  a  handker 
chief  which  the  captain  says  he  took  from  the 
prisoner  on  the  morning  of  his  arrest.  Do  you 
recognize  it?" 

"  I  do." 

"  Go  on— what  about  it  ?  " 

"  It  was  submitted  to  me  for  chemical  analy 
sis — to  analyze  the  substance  with  which  it  is 
discolored." 

"And  you  found  ?  " 

"  I  found  that  it  was  stained  with  blood." 

"  Human  blood?" 


64  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"  Precisely." 

"  About  how  long  had  it  been  shed  ?  Did  its 
condition  indicate?" 

"  From  its  condition  when  submitted  to  me — 
that  is,  at  about  noon  on  the  I3th — I  inferred 
that  it  had  been  shed  not  much  less  nor  much 
more  than  twelve  hours." 

"  Thank  you,  Doctor,"  said  the  lawyer.  To 
Epstein,  "  Your  witness." 

"One  moment,  Doctor,"  said  Epstein. 
Turning  to  me,  "  You  can  give  no  explanation 
of  this  circumstance  ?  "  he  whispered. — "  None," 
I  answered. — To  the  witness,  "  Doctor,  blood 
may  be  shed  in  divers  ways,  may  it  not  ?  This 
blood  on  the  handkerchief,  for  instance — it 
might  have  come  from — say,  a  nose-bleed,  eh  ?  " 

The  surgeon  smiled,  hesitated,  then  replied, 
"  Possibly,  though  not  probably.  Its  quality  is 
rather  that  of  blood  from  a  wound  than  that  of 
blood  from  congested  capillaries.  But  it  is 
quite  possible." 

"  You  can  go,  Doctor." — To  me,  "  Are  you 
sure  you  didn't  have  a  nose-bleed  on  the  night 
in  question?" 

"  I  know  nothing  at  all  about  it." 


AS  IT  WAS  WKfTTEN.  6$ 

The  next  witness  was  a  woman. 

She  said  she  was  the  janitress  of  the  apart 
ment-house,  No.  —  East  Fifty-first  street.  It 
was  a  portion  of  her  duty  as  such  to  open  the 
street-door  when  the  bell  was  rung.  On  the 
evening  of  July  I2th,  she  had  opened  the  door 
and  admitted  the  prisoner  between  seven  and 
eight  o'clock. 

"  Can  you  say  at  what  hour  the  prisoner  left 
the  house?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  can.  It  was  a  warm  night,  and 
me  and  my  husband  were  seated  out  on  the 
stoop  for  the  sake  of  the  breeze  till  late.  Mr. 
Neuman  went  out  a  little  before  twelve 
o'clock." 

"  He  entered  between  seven  and  eight.  He 
left  at  about  midnight.  Now,  meanwhile, 
whom  else  did  you  admit  ?  " 

"  No  one  at  all.  From  half  past  seven  until 
midnight  no  one  went  in  except  Mr.  Neu 
man." 

"  Was  not  that  a  somewhat  unusual  circum 
stance?  " 

"  Most  extraordinary.  Me  and  my  husband 
spoke  about  it  at  the  time." 

5 


66  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"You  can  swear  positively  on  this  score?" 

"  Yes,  because  we  staid  on  the  stoop  the 
whole  evening  and  not  a  soul  could  have  passed 
us  without  our  seeing." 

"Are  there  any  other  means  of  ingress  to  the 
house  of  which  you  have  charge  than  the  street 
door?" 

"  Yes,  sir;  the  basement-door  and  the  scuttle- 
door  in  the  roof." 

"  What  was  their  condition  on  the  night  of 
the  I2th  of  July?" 

"  They  were  locked  and  bolted." 

"  What  was  their  condition  on  the  morning 
of  the  I3th  ?" 

"  At  six  o'clock  when  I  opened  the  house 
they  were  still  locked  and  bolted." 

"  Meantime  could  they  have  been  unlocked  ?  " 

"  No,  because  I  carried  the  keys  in  my 
pocket." 

"  Now,  what  are  the  means  of  ingress  to  the 
flat  occupied  by  Mr.  Tikulski  ?  " 

"  The  door  that  opens  from  his  private  hall 
into  the  outer  hall  of  the  house." 

"Any  other?" 

"  No,  your  honor." 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  6j 

"Do  you  recognize  this  key? "handing  to 
the  witness  the  key  that  the  officer  had  iden 
tified. 

"  I  do,  sir." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  It's  a  key  to  Mr.  Tikulski's  door  ?  " 

Here  befell  a  pause,  during  which  the  jurymen 
shifted  in  their  seats  and  the  prosecutor  con 
sulted  with  his  colleague.  In  a  moment  he 
resumed. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Marshall,  you  have  testified  that 
the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  Ernest  Neuman,  left 
the  house,  No.  —  East  Fifty-first  street,  shortly 
before  midnight  on  the  I2th  of  July.  Your 
memory  on  this  point  is  entirely  trustworthy?" 

"  It  is,  sir." 

"  Very  well.  Did  you  notice  his  movements 
after  that  ?  " 

"  I  did,  sir." 

"  Tell  us  what  they  were." 

"Well,  sir,  he  crossed  over  the  street  and 
stood  on  the  sidewalk  under  a  lamp-post  look 
ing  up  at  the  front  of  the  house  toward  Mr. 
Tikulski's  windows,  and  then — " 

"  For  how  long?" 


68  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"  I  couldn't  tell  exactly,  but  maybe  for  the 
time  it  would  take  you  to  walk  around  the 
block." 

"For  five  minutes?  " 

"  Yes,  or  more  likely  for  ten." 

"  And  then—?  " 

"  Well,  and  then,  as  I  was  saying,  he  marched 
straight  away  toward  the  avenue." 

"  Toward  what  avenue?" 

"  Toward  Second  avenue." 

"  And  disappeared  ?  " 

"  And  disappeared." 

"  Did  you  see  any  thing  more  of  him  that 
night  ?  " 

"  I  did,  sir." 

"  When  and  under  what  circumstances  ?  " 

"  In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  your  honor, 
Mr.  Neuman  he  comes  back  and  stands 
leaning  up  against  the  railing  across  the  way ; 
and  pretty  soon  crosses  over  and  goes  past  us 
without  speaking  a  word  and  enters  the  house, 
the  door  being  open,  and  goes  up  the  stairs." 

My  lawyer  turned  sharply  to  me.  "  Is  this 
true  ?  "  he  whispered.  "  No,  it  is  entirely  false," 
I  answered.  But  I  did  not  care. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  69 

"This,"  resumed  the  district-attorney,  "  was 
at  about  what  hour  ?  " 

"  Sure,  you  can  reckon  it  for  yourself,  sir. 
It  was  a  little  after  twelve." 

"  Very  good.  Now,  at  what  hour  did  you 
shut  up  the  house?  " 

"  It  was  after  one  o'clock." 

"  Had  the  prisoner  meantime  gone  out?  " 

"  He  had  not." 

"  So  that  consecutively  from  the  moment  of 
his  reentrance  to  the  hour  of  your  closing  up, 
he  was  in  the  house?  " 

"  He  was,  sir." 

"  Meanwhile,  who  else  had  entered  ?  " 

"  Two  of  the  tenants,  Mr.  and  Mrs. ,  the 

tenants  of  the  first  flat." 

"  Any  one  else?  " 

"  Nb  one  else." 

"  That  will  do,  Mrs.  Marshall." 

My  lawyer  cross-questioned  her  for  an  hour. 
His  utmost  art  was  powerless  to  shake  her. 
She  reiterated  absolutely  and  word  for  word 
what  she  had  already  sworn  to. 

"  John  Marshall !  "  called  the  prosecutor. 

Jt   was  the   husband  of   the    janitress.     He 


70  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

confirmed  her  story,  and  like  her,  was  impreg 
nable  to  Epstein's  assaults. 

"  That's  our  case,  your  honor,"  said  the  dis 
trict-attorney  to  the  judge. 

"  Then  we  will  adjourn  until  to-morrow," 
replied  the  latter. 

I  was  handcuffed  and  led  back  to  the  Tombs, 
a  crowd  following.  Epstein  joined  me  in  my 
cell. 

"  How  about  that  key  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"  How  about  the  blood  on  your  handker 
chief?" 

"  I  don't  remember.  Perhaps,  as  you  sug 
gested,  I  had  a  nose-bleed." 

"You  are  sure  you  did  not  reenter  the 
house  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  of  that.  I  went  straight 
home  and  to  bed." 

"Then  the  Marshalls  have  lied  out  and 
out?" 

"  They  have." 

"  Will  you  take  the  stand  ?  " 

"What  for?" 

"  Why,  to  defend,  to  exonerate  yourself." 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  71 

"No." 

"  I  feared  as  much.  My  friend,  your  life 
depends  upon  it." 

"  What  do  I  care  for  my  life  ?  " 

"  But  your  good  name — you  cherish  your 
good  name,  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied,  stubbornly. 

He  attempted  to  plead,  to  reason  with  me. 
"  No,  no,  no,"  I  insisted.  He  went  his  way. 

"  Your  honor,"  he  said  next  day  in  court, 
"  I  ask  that  the  jury  be  directed  to  render  a 
verdict  of  not  guilty,  on  the  ground  that  the 
prosecution  has  failed  to  show  any  motive  on 
the  part  of  my  client  for  the  crime  of  which  he 
is  accused.  Where  the  evidence  is  wholly  cir 
cumstantial,  as  in  the  present  case,  a  failure  to 
show  motive  is  fatal." 

"  I  shall  not  hamper  the  jury,"  said  the  judge. 
"They  must  decide  the  case  on  its  merits." 

Epstein  called,  "  Mrs.  Burrows."  My  land 
lady  took  the  witness-chair  and  testified  to  my 
excellent  .character.  He  called  a  handful  more 
to  testify  to  the  same  thing;  then  said,  "  I  am 
ready  to  sum  up,  your  honor." 

"  Do  so,"  replied  the  Court. 


7*  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

Epstein  spoke  shortly  and  quietly.  I  remem 
ber  his  argument  word  for  word  ;  yet  I  was  not 
conscious  of  attending  to  it  at  the  time. 

He  said,  "We  are  not  prepared  to  contest 
the  matters  of  fact  alleged  by  the  prosecution, 
nor  to  deny  that  their  bearing  is  against  my 
client.  That  Mr.  Neuman  was  in  Miss  Path- 
zuol's  company  on  the  night  of  July  I2th,  and 
that  the  next  morning  a  blood-stained  handker 
chief  and  a  key  to  Mr.  Tikulski's  door  were 
taken  from  his  pocket,  we  admit.  We  will 
even  admit  that  these  circumstances  are  of  a 
sort  to  cast  suspicion  upon  him :  all  that  we 
claim  is  that  they  are  not  sufficient  to  confirm 
that  suspicion  and  make  it  certainty.  It  is  the 
liberty,  perhaps  the  life,  of  a  human  being 
which  you  have  at  your  disposal.  No  matter 
how  dark  the  shadow  over  him  may  be,  if  you 
can  entertain  a  reasonable  doubt  of  his  guilt, 
you  must  acquit.  And,  putting  it  to  you  in  all 
simplicity  and  sincerity,  I  ask  :  Does  not  the 
evidence  offered  by  the  prosecution  leave  room 
for  a  reasonable  doubt  ?  Is  it  not  possible  that 
some  other  hand  than  Neuman's  dealt  the 
blows  by  which  Veronika  Pathzuol  met  her 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  7J 

death  ?  If  such  a  possibility  exists,  you  must 
give  Neuman  the  benefit  of  it ;  you  must 
acquit.  Consider  his  good  character  ;  consider 
that  he  was  the  betrothed  of  the  lady  whose 
murderer  they  would  make  him  out  to  be  ;  con 
sider  that  absolutely  no  trace  of  motive  has 
been  brought  home  to  him  ;  consider  that  on 
the  contrary  he  was  the  one  man  who  above  all 
others  most  desired  that  she  might  live  ;  con 
sider  these  matters,  and  then  decide  whether 
in  reasonableness  his  guilt  is  not  in  doubt. 
Remember  that  it  is  not  sufficient  that  there 
should  be  a  presumption  against  him.  Remem 
ber  that  there  must  be  proof.  Remember  also 
what  a  grave  duty  yours  is,  and  how  grave  the 
consequences,  should  you  send  an  innocent 
man  to  the  gallows. 

"Only  one  word  more.  I  had  naturally  in- 
tended  to  place  my  client  upon  the  stand,  and 
let  him  justify  himself  by  his  own  word  of 
mouth.  But,  unfortunately,  I  am  not  able  to 
do  so,  because  morally  and  physically  he  is 
prostrated  and  unfitted  for  sustaining  the  strain 
of  an  examination.  But  after  all,  if  you  will 
for  a  moment  imagine  yourselves  in  Mr.  Neu- 


74  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

man's  position,  you  can  conceive  that  his  de, 
fense  must  necessarily  be  of  a  passive,  not  ol 
an  active,  kind.  In  his  position  what  could 
you  say?  Why,  only  that  you  were  ignorant  ot 
the  whole  transaction,  and  innocent  despite  ap, 
pearances,  and  as  much  at  loss  for  a  solution 
of  the  mystery  involving  it  as  his  honor  himself. 
This  is  what  Neuman  would  say  were  he  able 
to  go  upon  the  stand.  But  one  thing  more  he 
would  say.  He  would  impugn  the  veracity  of 
the  Marshalls.  He  would  maintain  that  they 
lied  in  toto  when  they  swore  to  his  second  en 
trance.  He  would  tell  you  that  when  he  left 
the  house  in  Fifty-first  street  at  midnight,  he 
went  directly  home  and  to  his  bed,  and  that  he 
returned  no  more  until  the  next  morning. 
And  he  would  leave  you  to  choose  be 
tween  his  story  and  that  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Marshall.  My  opponent  will  ask,  '  Why  not 
prove  an  alibi,  then  ? '  Because,  when  Mr. 
Neuman  returned  to  his  lodging-house  late  that 
night,  every  body,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
was  asleep.  He  encountered  no  one  in  the 
hall  or  on  the  stairs.  He  mounted  straight  to 
his  own  bed-charnber  and  went  to  bed. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN:  75 

"  I  trust  the  matter  to  your  discretion.  I  am 
sure  that  you  will  weigh  it  carefully  and  con 
scientiously.  You  will  realize  that  the  life  of 
a  fellow  man  hangs  upon  your  verdict,  and  you 
will  deliberate  well,  if  there  be  not,  on  the 
whole,  a  reasonable  doubt  in  his  favor.  You 
will,  I  am  confident,  in  no  uncertain  mind  con 
sign  Ernest  Neuman  to  the  grave  of  a  felon." 

The  district-attorney's  address  was  florid  and 
rhetorical.  It  lasted  about  two  hours.  He 
resumed  the  evidence.  He  said  that  an  ordinary 
process  of  elimination  would  suffice  to  fasten 
the  guilt  upon  the  prisoner  at  the  bar.  The 
gist  of  his  argument  was  that  as  Neuman  had 
been  the  only  person  in  the  victim's  company 
at  the  time  of  the  commission  of  the  crime,  he 
was  consequently  the  only  person  who  by  a 
physical  possibility  could  be  guilty.  He  warned 
the  jury  against  allowing  their  sympathies  to 
interfere  with  their  judgment,  and  read  at  length 
from  a  law  book  respecting  the  value  of  circum 
stantial  proof.  He  ridiculed  Epstein's  impeach 
ment  of  the  Marshalls,  and  added  that  even 
without  their  testimony  the  doctor's  story  and 
the  police-captain's  story,  coupled  with  my  own 


76  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"eloquent  silence,"  were  conclusive.  It  was  the 
obvious  duty  of  the  jury  to  convict. 

The  judge  delivered  his  charge,  dealing  with 
the  legal  aspect  of  the  case. 

Epstein  rose  again.  "  I  request  your  honor," 
he  said,  "  to  charge  that  in  the  event  of  the 
jurymen  finding  that  there  is  a  reasonable 
doubt  in  Neuman's  favor,  they  must  acquit." 

"  I  so  charge,"  assented  the  judge. 

"I  request  your  honor,"  Epstein  continued, 
"  to  charge  that  if  the  jurymen  consider  the 
fact  of  no  motive  having  been  shown,  sufficient 
to  establish  a  reasonable  doubt  of  the  defend 
ant's  guilt,  they  must  acquit." 

"  I  so  charge  you,  gentlemen,"  said  the 
judge. 

The  jurymen  filed  out  of  the  room.  The 
judge  left  the  bench.  It  was  now  about  four 
in  the  afternoon.  Half  an  hour  passed.  The 
court-room  began  to  empty.  Another  half 
hour  passed.  Only  the  court  attendants, 
Epstein,  the  district-attorney's  colleague,  and 
the  prisoner  remained.  One  of  the  attendants 
held  a  whispered  conference  with  Epstein : 
then  said  to  me,  "  There  is  no  prospect  of  a 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  77 

speedy  agreement.  Come."  I  rose,  followed 
him  to  the  rear  of  the  room,  and  was  locked  up 
in  the  prisoner's  pen. 

•It  got  dark.  I  sat  still  in  the  dark  and 
waited.  The  stupor  bound  my  faculties  like  a 
frost. 

It  had  been  dark  many  hours  when  the  door 
of  the  pen  swung  open.  The  same  attendant 
again  said,  "  Come." 

The  court-room  was  lighted  by  a  few  feeble 
gas  jets.  The  judge  sat  on  the  bench.  The 
district-attorney  was  laughing  and  chatting 
with  him.  Epstein  said,  "  For  God's  sake, 
summon  all  your  strength.  They  have 
agreed." 

The  jurymen  entered  in  single  file,  took  their 
places,  settled  themselves  in  their  chairs.  The 
judge  and  the  prosecutor  suspended  their 
pleasantries.  The  clerk  cleared  his  throat. 
There  was  a  second  of  dead  silence.  Then, 
"  Prisoner,  stand  up,"  called  the  clerk. 

I  stood  up. 

"  Prisoner,  look  you  upon  the  jury.  Jury, 
look  you  upon  the  prisoner,"  the  clerk  cried, 
machine-like. 


78  AS  IT  WAS  WKITTEN. 

In  the  murky  light  of  the  gas  I  could  have 
gathered  nothing  from  the  faces  of  the  jury 
men,  even  had  I  been  concerned  to  do  so. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  have  you  agreed 
upon  a  verdict?"  the  metallic  voice  of  the 
clerk  rang  out. 

The  foreman  rose.  "  We  have,"  he 
answered. 

"  How  say  you,  do  you  find  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar  guilty  or  not  guilty  of  the  offense 
for  which  he  stands  indicted  ?  " 

"  Not  guilty,"  said  the  foreman. 

Epstein  grasped  my  hand  and  crunched  it 
hard.  His  own  was  clammy.  He  did  not 
speak. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you  say  you  find 
the  prisoner  at  the  bar  not  guilty  of  homicide 
in  the  first  degree,  and  so  your  verdict  stands 
recorded.  Neuman,  you  are  discharged."  It 
was  the  clerk's  last  word. 

I  quitted  the  court-room,  a  free  man.  I  was 
as  indifferent  to  my  freedom  as  I  had  been  to 
my  peril.  There  was  no  consciousness  of  relief 
in  my  breast. 

Epstein   stood   at   my   elbow.     "You  must 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  79 

be  weak  and  faint,"  he  said.  "  Come  with 
me." 

He  led  me  through  the  silent  streets  and  into 
a  restaurant. 

"  This  is  an  all-night  place,"  he  said,  with  an 
attempt  at  cheerfulness,  "  and  much  frequented 
by  journalists.  What  will  you  have?" 

"  I  am  not  hungry,"  I  answered. 

"  Oh,  but  you  must  take  something,"  he 
urged  with  a  touch  of  ruefulness,  "  just  a  bite  to 
celebrate  our  victory." 

I  drank  a  cup  of  coffee.  When  we  were 
again  out-doors,  Epstein  cried,  "  Why,  see ;  it 
is  beginning  to  get  light.  Morning  already." 
A  fresh  wind  blew  in  our  faces,  and  the  black 
ness  of  the  sky  was  giving  place  to  gray.  "  I 
must  leave  you  now,"  said  Epstein,  "  and 
hurry  home.  Where  will  you  go?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  I  replied.  "  I'll  stroll 
about  for  a  while.  Good-by." 

"  Good-by." 


VI. 


1  WALKED  along  aimlessly,  recounting  all 
the  happenings  of  the  last  few  weeks.  I 
was  astonished  at  my  own  blank  insensibility. 
"  Why,  Veronika,  the  Veronika  you  loved,  is 
dead,  murdered,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  and  you, 
you  who  loved  her,  have  been  in  prison  and  on 
trial  for  the  crime.  They  have  outraged  you. 
They  have  sworn  falsely  against  you.  And  the 
very  core  of  your  life  has  been  torn  out.  Yet 
you — -what  has  come  over  you  ?  Are  you 
heartless,  have  you  no  capacity  for  grief  or 
indignation  ?  Or  is  it  that  you  are  still  half 
stunned?  And  that  presently  you  will  come  to 
and  begin  to  feel  ?  "  I  strode  on  and  on.  It 
was  broad  day  now.  By  and  by  I  looked 
around. 

I  was  in  Second  avenue,  near  its  southern 
extremity.  I  was  standing  in  front  of  a  large 
red  brick  house.  A  white  placard  nailed  to  the 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN,  8l 

door  caught  my  eye.  "  Room  to  let,"  it  said 
in  big  black  letters. 

"  Room  to  let  ?  "  I  repeated.  "  Why,  I  am  in 
need  of  a  room."  And  I  entered  the  house 
and  engaged  the  room.  The  landlady  asked 
my  name.  I  told  her  it  was  Lexow,  that  hav 
ing  been  the  maiderf-name  of  my  mother. 
Neuman  had  acquired  too  unpleasant  a  noto 
riety  through  the  published  accounts  of  the 
trial.  As  Lexow  I  have  been  known  ever 
since. 

I  employed  an  express  agent  to  go  to  the 
Tombs  and  bring  back  my  luggage. 

Then  I  sat  at  my  window  and  watched  the 
people  pass  in  the  street.  I  sat  there  stock- 
still  all  day.  I  was  aware  of  a  vague  feeling  of 
wretchedness,  of  a  vague  craving  for  a  relief 
which  I  could  not  name.  As  dusk  gathered,  a 
lump  grew  bigger  and  bigger  in  my  throat.  "  I 
am  beginning  to  be  unhappy,"  I  thought.  "  It 
is  high  time."  My  insensibility  had  frightened 
as  well  as  puzzled  me.  Instinctively,  I  knew  it 
could  not  last  forever,  knew  it  for  the  calm  that 
precedes  the  storm.  I  was  anxious  that  the 
storm  should  break  while  I  was  •still  strong 


3a  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

enough  to  cope  with  its  fury.  Waiting  weak 
ened  me.  Besides,  I  was  ashamed  of  myself, 
hated  myself  as  one  shallow  and  disloyal.  That 
I  could  be  indifferent  to  Veronika's  death !  I, 
who  had  called  myself  her  lover  ! 

But  now,  as  the  lump  grew  in  my  throat, 
now,  I  thought,  perhaps  the  hour  has  come.  I 
sat  still  in  my  chair,  fanning  this  forlorn  spark 
of  hope. 

In  the  end,  by  imperceptible  degrees,  sleep 
stole  upon  me.  It  was  natural.  I  had  been 
up  for  more  than  six-and-thirty  hours. 

When  I  awoke  a  singular  thing  happened. 
Memory  played  me  a  singular  trick. 

I  awoke,  conscious  of  a  great  luminous  joy 
in  my  heart.  It  was  full  morning.  "  Ah,"  I 
thought,  "  how  bright  the  sunshine  is !  how 
sweet  the  air!  To-day  I  will  go  to  Veronika 
— to-day,  after  my  lessons — and  spend  the  rest 
of  the  afternoon  and  the  evening  at  her  side  ! " 
My  heart  leaped  at  this  prospect  of  happiness 
in  store :  and  I  commenced  to  plan  the  after 
noon  and  evening  in  detail.  At  last  I  jumped 
up,  eager  to  begin  the  delicious  day. 

The  trick  that  memory  played  me  was  a  sim- 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  83 

pie  one,  after  all.  The  recent  past  had  simply 
for  the  moment  been  obliterated,  and  I  trans 
ported  back  for  a  moment  into  the  old  time. 
As  I  stood  now  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  my 
eye  was  struck  by  the  strangeness  of  my  sur 
roundings. 

"  Why,  how  is  this?  "  I  questioned.  "  Where 
am  I?" 

For  a  trice  I  was  bewildered,  but  only  for  a 
trice.  The  truth  reasserted  itself  all  at  once — 
rose  up  and  faced  me  with  its  grim,  deathly 
visage,  as  if  cleared  by  a  stroke  of  lightning. 
All'at  once  I  remembered  ;  and  what  is  more, 
all  at  once  the  stupor  that  had  hung  like  a 
cloud  between  me  and  the  facts,  rolled  away. 
I  looked  at  my  world.  It  was  dust  and  ashes, 
a  waste  space,  peopled  by  ghosts.  My  heart 
recoiled,  sickened,  horrified ;  then  began  to 
throb  with  the  pain  that  had  been  ripening  in 
its  womb  ever  since  the  morning  when  Tikulski 
pointed  to  her,  stretched  murdered  upon  the 
bed. 

Well,  at  last  the  storm  had  broken ;  at  last 
I  realized.  At  last  I  could  no  longer  reproach 
myself  for  a  want  of  sensibility.  At  last  I  had 


\ 

84  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

my   desire.      I    yielded    myself   to    the  enjoy, 
ment  of  it  for  the  remainder  of  the  day. 

For  weeks  afterward  I  lay  at  the  point  of 
death.  The  slow  convalescence  that  ensued 
afforded  me  plenty  of  time  to  examine  my 
position  from  every  point  of  view,  and  to  get 
accustomed  to  understanding  that  the  light  had 
gone  out  of  my  sky.  Of  course  I  hated  the 
fate  that  condemned  me  to  regain  my  health. 
The  thought  that  I  should  have  to  drag  out 
years  and  years  of  blank,  aimless,  joyless  life, 
appalled  me.  The  future  was  a  night  through 
which  I  should  be  compelled  to  toil  with  no 
hope  of  morning.  Strangely  enough,  the  idea 
of  suicide  never  once  suggested  itself. 

When  I  was  able  to  go  out,  I  repaired  to 
Epstein's  office.  Several  little  matters  remained 
to  be  settled  with  him.  As  I  was  about  to 
leave,  he  said,  "  Neuman,  do  you  propose  to 
take  any  steps  toward  finding  the  murderer?  " 

"Toward  finding  the  murderer?' Why,  no ; 
I  had  not  thought  of  doing  so." 

"  But  of  course  you  will.  You  won't  allow 
the  affair  to  rest  in  statu  quo  ?  " 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  85 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Why,  considering  your  relations  to  Miss 
Pathzuol,  I  should  think  your  motive  would  be 
plain.  Don't  you  want  to  see  her  murderer 
punished,  her  death  atoned  for  ?  " 

"  Her  death  atoned  for !  Her  death  can 
never  be  atoned  for.  And  the  punishment  of 
her  murderer — would  that  restore  her  to  me? 
Would  that  undo  the  fact  that  she  is  dead? 
Else,  why  should  I  bestir  myself  about  it  ?  " 

"  Common  human  nature  ought  to  be 
enough  ;  the  natural  wish  to  square  accounts 
with  him." 

"  Do  you  fancy,  Epstein,  that  such  an  account 
as  this  can  be  squared  ?  Suppose  we  had  him 
here  now  at  our  mercy,  what  could  we  do 
by  way  of  squaring  accounts  ?  Put  him  to 
death  ?  Would  that  square  the  account  ?  To 
say  so  would  be  to  compare  his  miserable  life 
to  hers. — But  besides,  he  is  not  at  our  mercy. 
We  have  no  clew  to  him." 

"  Yes,  on  the  contrary,  we  have." 

"  Indeed  ?     What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  most  apparent  one.  You  arc  sure 
the  Marshalls  lied  ?  " 


86  AS  IT   WAS   WRITTEN. 

"  Oh  yes  ;  I  am  sure  of  that." 

"  Well,  what  earthly  inducement  could  they 
have  had  for  lying — for  perjuring  themselves, 
mind  you,  and  running  the  risk  of  being  caught 
and  sent  to  prison — what  earthly  inducement, 
unless  thereby  they  hoped  to  cover  up  their 
own  guilt  by  throwing  suspicion  upon  another 
man  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  that  is  so.  I  had  not  thought  of 
that." 

"  Well,  now,  if  you  and  I  are  sure  that  the 
Marshalls  participated  in  that  crime,  there  is  a 
solid  starting-point.  Now,  will  you  not  join 
me  and  help  to  fasten  the  guilt  upon  them?  " 

"  What  good  would  it  do  ?  I  say  again,  would 
that  give  her  back  to  me  ?  " 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  even  if  you  have  no 
desire  to  see  the  murderer  punished,  you  must 
at  least  wish  to  retaliate  upon  the  wretches  who 
jeopardized  your  life  by  their  false  swearing, 
who  sought  to  thrust  upon  your  innocent 
shoulders  the  brunt  of  their  own  offending." 

"  No  ;  I  confess,  I  have  no  such  wish." 

"  But — but  you  amaze  me.  Have  you  not 
the  ordinary  instincts  of  a  man  ?  " 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  87 

"  It  is  the  business  of  the  police,  any  how. 
Let  them  move  in  the  matter.  You  ought  to 
understand  that  I  am  sick  and  tired,  that  all  I 
wish  for  is  to  be  left  alone.  No,  no  ;  if  the 
Marshalls  should  ever  be  brought  to  justice  it 
will  not  be  by  my  efforts.  The  police  can 
manage  it  for  themselves." 

"  But  there  is  just  the  point."  Epstein 
hesitated ;  at  length  went  on,  "  There  is  just 
the  point  I  wanted  to  bring  to  your  notice.  It 
will  be  hard  for  you  to  hear,  but  you  ought  to  un 
derstand — it  is  only  right  that  I  should  tell  you — 
that — that — why,  hang  it,  the  police  will  remain 
idle  because  they  suppose  they  have  already 
finished  the  business,  already  put  their  finger 
on  the — the  man." 

"  Well,  why  should  they  remain  idle  on  that 
account  ?  Why  don't  they  arrest  him  and  try 
him,  as  they  did  me,  before  a  jury  ?" 

"  You  don't  comprehend,  Neuman.  The  fact 
of  the  matter  is — you  must  pardon  me  for  say 
ing  so — the  fact  is,  they  still  suspect  you." 

"  Suspect  me  ?  What,  after  the  very  jury  has 
acquitted  me?  I  thought  the  verdict  of  the 
jury  was  conclusive." 


•8  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"  So  it  is,  in  one  sense.  They  can't  put  you 
in  jeopardy  again.  But  this  is  the  way  they 
stand.  They  say,  '  We  haven't  sufficient  legal 
evidence  to  warrant  a  conviction,  but  we  feel 
morally  certain,  all  the  same,  and  so  there's  no 
use  prying  further.'  That  is  my  reason  for 
broaching  the  subject  and  for  urging  you  so 
strongly.  You  ought  to  clear  your  character, 
vindicate  your  innocence,  by  proving  to  the 
police  that  they  are  wrong,  that  the  guilt  rests 
with  their  own  witnesses,  the  Marshalls." 

"  I  thank  you,  Epstein,  for  telling *me  this. 
I  am  glad  to  realize  just  what  my  status  is.  But 
let  me  cherish  no  misconception.  Is  this 
theory  of  the  police — is  it  held  by  others  ?  " 

"  To  be  frank,  I  am  afraid  it  is.  The  news 
papers  took  it  up  and — and  I'm  afraid  it's  the 
opinion  of  the  public  generally." 

"Then  the  verdict  did  not  signify?" 

"  Well,  at  least  not  so  far  as  public  opinion 
is  concerned." 

"  So  that  I  am  to  rest  under  this  stigma  all 
my  life  ?  " 

"  Why,  no — not  if  you  choose  to  exonerate 
yourself,  as  I  have  indicated," 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  89 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  about  that.  I  don't  care 
to  exonerate  myself.  What  difference  would 
it  make  ?  Would  it  make  the  fact  that  she  is 
lost  to  me  forever  one  shade  less  true  ?  Only,  it 
is  well  that  I  should  have  a  clear  understand 
ing  of  my  position,  and  I  thank  you  for  giving 
it  to  me." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  are  going 
to  drop  the  case  there  ?  "  Epstein  demanded. 
"  I  assure  you,  I  never  should  have  opened  my 
mouth  about  it,  had  I  foreseen  this." 

"  Don't  reproach  yourself.  You  have  simply 
done  your  duty.  It  was  my  right  to  hear  this 
from  you. — Yes,  of  course  I  shall  drop  the 
case.  Good-by." 

"You  will  think  better  of  it ;  you  will  recon 
sider  it ;  you  will  come  back  to-morrow  in  a 
wiser  frame  of  mind.  Good-by." 

As  I  reentered  my  lodging-house  the  land- 
lady  met  me  ;  thrust  an  envelope  into  my  hand  ; 
and  vanished. 

I  was  surprised  to  see  that  the  envelope  was 
addressed  to  "  E.  Neuman,  Esquire."  It  will 
be  remembered  that  I  had  introduced  myself 
as  Mr.  Lexow.  I  tore  it  open.  It  inclosed  t 


90  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

memorandum  of  my  arrears  of  rent  and  a 
notice  to  quit,  the  latter  couched  thus :  "  Mr. 
Neuman's  real  name  having  been  learned  dur 
ing  his  sickness,  please  move  out  as  soon  as  you 
have  paid  up." 

I  caught  sight  of  myself  in  the  glass.  "  So," 
I  said,  "you  are  the  person  whom  people  sus 
pect  as  a  murderer  !  and  it  is  thus  that  you  are 
to  be  regarded  all  the  rest  of  your  life — as  one 
touched  with  the  plague." 

I  counted  my  ready  money  and  paid  the 
landlady  her  due. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  began,  "  but  the 
reputation  of  my  house — but  the  other  lodgers 
— but—" 

"  You  needn't  apologize,"  I  interposed,  and 
left  the  house. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  be  necessary 
to  find  work  whereby  to  earn  my  livelihood. 
I  had  quite  forgotten  that  I  was  poor.  What 
should  I  do  ? 

The  notion  of  giving  music  lessons  again  I 
could  not  entertain.  Music  had  become  hate 
ful  to  me.  I  could  not  touch  my  violin.  I 
could  not  even  unlock  the  case  and  look  at  the 


AS  TT  WAS  WRITTEN.  $1 

instrument.  It  was  too  closely  associated  with 
the  cause  of  my  sorrow.  The  mere  memory 
of  a  strain  of  music,  drifting  through  my  mind, 
was  enough  to  cut  my  heart  like  a  knife. 
Music  was  out  of  the  question. 

I  had  had  a  little  money  in  the  Savings  Bank. 
With  this  sum  I  had  intended  to  furnish  the 
rooms  which  she  and  I  were  to  have  occupied ! 
Now  it  was  all  spent ;  three-quarters  swallowed 
up  by  the  expenses  of  my  trial,  the  residue  by  the 
expenses  of  my  illness  and  the  landlady's  score 
for  rent.  I  opened  my  purse.  I  had  less  than 
a  dollar  left.  So  it  behooved  me  to  lose  no 
time.  I  must  find  a  means  of  support  at  once. 

But  music  apart,  what  remained  ? — My  wits 
were  sluggish.  Revolving  the  problem  over 
and  over  as  I  walked  along,  they  could  arrive 
at  no  solution. 

We  were  in  December.  The  day  was  bitter 
cold.  I  had  not  proceeded  a  great  distance 
before  the  cold  began  to  tell  upon  me.  "I 
must  step  in  somewhere  and  warm  myself,"  I 
said.  I  was  still  feeble.  I  could  not  endure  the 
stress  of  the  weather  as  I  might  have  done 
formerly.  I  made  for  the  first  shop  I  saw. 


9«  AS  IT  IV AS  WRITTEN. 

It  was  a  wine-shop,  kept  by  a  German,  as  the 
name  above  the  door  denoted.  I  took  a  table 
near  the  stove  and  asked  for  a  glass  of  wine. 
As  my  senses  thawed,  I  became  aware  that  a 
quarrel  was  going  on  in  the  room— angry  voices 
penetrated  my  hearing. 

The  proprietor,  a  fat  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
stood  behind  the  bar.  His  face  was  very  red. 
In  his  native  tongue  loudly  and  volubly  he  was 
berating  one  of  his  assistants — a  waiter  with  a 
scared  face. 

"  Go,  go  at  once.  You  are  a  rascal,  a  good- 
for-naught,"  he  was  saying;  "here  is  your 
money.  Clear  out,  before  I  hurt  you." 

The  culprit  was  nervously  untying  his  apron 
strings.  "  Yes,  sir,  at  once,  at  once,"  he  stam 
mered.  In  the  end  he  put  on  his  hat  and 
accomplished  a  frightened  exit.  His  confreres 
watched  his  decapitation  with  repressed  sym 
pathy. 

After  he  had  gone,  the  proprietor's  wrath 
began  perceptibly  to  mitigate.  He  settled 
down  in  his  chair.  The  tint  of  his  skin  gradu 
ally  cooled.  He  lighted  a  cigar.  He  picked  up  a 
newspaper. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  93 

I  had  taken  in  these  various  proceedings 
mechanically,  without  bestowing  upon  them 
any  special  attention.  But  now  an  idea, 
prompted  by  them,  began  to  fructify.  By  and 
by  I  approached  the  counter  and  ventured  a 
timid,  "  I  beg  your  pardon." 

The  proprietor  glanced  up. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  continued  in  German, 
"  but  you  have  discharged  a  waiter  !  " 

"Well?"  he  responded. 

"  Well,  you  will  probably  need  somebody  to 
take  his  place  ?  " 

"Well?     What  of  it?" 

"  I — I — that  is,  if  you  think  I  would  do,  I 
should  like  the  employment." 

The  proprietor  looked  thoughtful.  He 
scratched  his  chin,  puffed  vigorously  at  his 
cigar,  and  asked  my  name.  He  shook  his 
head  when  I  confessed  that  I  had  had  no  experi 
ence  of  the  business  ;  but  seemed  impressed  by 
my  remark  that  on  that  account  I  would  be 
willing  to  serve  for  smaller  wages.  He  mentioned 
a  stipend.  It  was  ridiculously  slender  ;  but 
what  cared  I  ?  It  would  keep  body  and  soul 
together.  I  desired  nothing  more. 


94  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"What  references  can  you  give?"  he  in 
quired. 

I  mentioned  Epstein. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "You  can  go  to  work 
at  once.  To-morrow  I  will  look  up  your  refer 
ence.  If  it  be  satisfactory,  I  will  keep  you." 

The  Oberkellner  provided  me  with  an  apron 
and  a  short  alpaca  jacket;  and  in  this  garb 
Ernest  Neuman,  musician,  merged  his  identity, 
as  he  supposed  for  good  and  all,  into  that  of 
Ernest  Lexow,  waiter. 


VII. 

TWO  years  elapsed.  Their  history  is  easily 
told.  I  lived  and  moved  and  had  my 
being  in  a  profound  apathy  to  all  that  passed 
around  me.  The  material  conditions  of  my 
existence  caused  me  no  distress.  I  dwelt  in  a 
dingy  room  in  a  dirty  house ;  ate  poor  food, 
wore  poor  clothing,  worked  long  hours ;  was 
treated  as  a  menial  and  had  to  put  up  with  a 
hundred  indignities  every  day ;  but  I  was  wholly 
indifferent,  had  other  things  to  think  of.  My 
thoughts  and  my  feelings  were  concentrated 
upon  my  one  great  grief.  My  heart  had  no 
room  left  in  it  for  pettier  troubles.  I  do  not 
believe  that  there  was  a  waking  moment  in 
those  two  years  when  I  was  unconscious  of  my 
love  and  my  loss.  Veronika  abode  with  me 
morning,  noon,  and  night.  My  memory  of  her 
and  my  unutterable  sorrow  for  her  engrossed 
me  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else. 

My  violin  I  did  not  unlock  from  year's  end 


96  AS  IT  W 'AS  WRITTEN. 

to  year's  end.  I  could  not  get  over  my  hatred 
for  the  bare  idea  of  music.  Music  recalled  the 
past  too  vividly.  I  had  not  the  fortitude  to 
endure  it.  The  sound  of  a  hand-organ  in  the 
street  was  enough  to  cause  me  a  twinge  like 
that  of  a  nerve  touched  by  steel. 

As  the  winter  leaped  into  spring,  and  days 
came  which  were  the  duplicates  of  those  I  had 
spent  with  her,  of  course  my  pain  grew  more 
acute.  The  murmur  of  out-door  life  and  the 
warmth  and  perfume  of  the  spring  air,  pene 
trated  to  the  very  quick  of  memory  and  made 
it  quiver.  But  at  about  this  time  I  began  to 
taste  an  unexpected  pleasure.  It  was  an  odd 
one.  Of  old,  during  our  betrothal,  I  had  been 
tormented  almost  nightly  by  bad  dreams.  As 
surely  as  I  laid  my  head  upon  its  pillow,  so 
surely  would  I  be  wafted  off  into  an  ugly  night 
mare — she  and  I  were  separated — we  had  quar 
reled — she  had  ceased  to  love  me.  But  now 
that  my  worst  dream  had  been  excelled  by  the 
reality,  I  began  to  have  dreams  of  quite  another 
sort.  As  soon  as  sleep  closed  upon  me,  the 
truth  was  annihilated,  Veronika  came  back. 
All  night  long  we  were  supremely  happy ;  we 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN,  97 

played  and  sang  and  talked  together,  just  as  we 
had  been  used  to  do.  These  dreams  were  aston 
ishingly  life-like.  Indeed,  in  the  morning  after 
one,  I  would  wonder  which  was  the  very  fact, 
the  dream  or  the  waking.  My  nightly  dream 
got  to  be  a  goal  to  look  forward  to  during  the 
day.  But  as  the  summer  deepened,  I  dreamed 
less  and  less  frequently,  and  at  length  ceased 
altogether. 

Autumn  returned,  and  winter ;  and  my  life 
did  not  vary.  Time  was  slow  about  healing 
my  wounds,  if  time  meant  to  heal  them  at  all. 
But  time  did  not  mean  to  heal  them  at  all,  as 
ere  long  became  apparent. 

One  afternoon  in  November,  a  month  or  so 
before  the  two  years  would  have  terminated,  a 
young  man  entered  the  shop  and  ensconced 
himself  at  a  table  in  the  corner.  Having 
delivered  his  order  and  lighted  a  cigarette,  he 
pulled  out  a  yellow  covered  French  book  from 
the  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  speedily  became 
immersed  in  its  perusal.  I  don't  know  what  it 
was  in  the  appearance  of  this  young  man  that 
attracted  my  attention.  Almost  from  the 
moment  of  his  advent  my  eyes  kept  going 


9*  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

back  to  him.  His  own  eyes  being  fastened 
upon  his  book,  I  could  stare  at  him  without 
giving  offense.  And  stare  at  him  I  did  to  my 
heart's  content. 

He  was  a  tall  young  fellow  and  wore  his  hair 
a  trifle  longer  than  the  fashion  is.  He  wa» 
dressed  rather  carelessly  ;  he  knocked  his  cigar- 
ette  ashes  about  so  that  they  soiled  his  clothes. 
He  had  a  dark  skin,  and,  in  singular  contrast  to 
it,  a  pair  of  large  blue  eyes.  His  forehead,  nose, 
and  chin  were  strongly  modeled  and  expressed 
force  of  character  without  pretending  to  con 
ventional  beauty.  He  was  not  a  handsome, 
but  a  distinguished  looking  man.  The  absence 
of  beard  and  mustache  lent  him  somewhat  of 
the  aspect  of  a  Catholic  priest.  His  big  blue  eye* 
were  full  of  good-nature  and  intelligence.  He 
had  a  quick,  energetic  way  of  moving  which 
announced  plenty  of  dash  within.  He  had 
entered  the  shop  like  a  gust  of  wind,  had  shot 
across  the  floor  and  taken  his  seat  at  the  table 
as  if  impelled*by  the  force  of  gunpowder,  and 
now  he  turned  the  pages  of  his  book  with  the 
air  of  a  man  whose  life  depended  upon  what  he 
was  doing.  No  sooner  had  he  consumed  one 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  99 

of  his  cigarettes  than  he  applied  a  match  to  its 
successor. 

I  stared  at  him  mercilessly  and  wondered 
what  manner  of  individual  he  was. 

"  He  is  not  a  business-man,"  I  said,  "  nor  a 
lawyer  nor  a  doctor :  that  is  evident  from  his 
whole  bearing;  and  besides,  what  would  he  be 
doing  in  a  wine-shop  at  this  hour  of  the  after 
noon  ?  I  don't  think  he  is  a  musician,  either — 
he  hasn't  the  musician's  eyes  or  mouth.  Possibly 
he  is  a  school-teacher,  or  it  may  be — yes, I  should 
say  most  certainly,  he  is  an  artist  of  some  sort, 
a  painter  or  sculptor,  or  perhaps  a  writer." 

My  speculations  had  proceeded  thus  far  when 
in  the  quick,  energetic  way  above  alluded  to  the 
young  man  looked  at  his  watch,  slammed  to  his 
book,  shoved  back  his  chair,  and  commenced 
hammering  upon  the  table  with  the  bottom  of 
his  empty  beer-mug. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said,  responding  to  his  sum 
mons. 

"  Check,"  he  demanded  laconically. 

I  handed  him  his  check.  He  thrust  his  fin 
gers  into  his  waistcoat-pocket  for  the  money. 
They  roamed  about,  apparently  unrewarded. 


TOO  4S  IT  WAS   WRITTEN. 

A  puzzled  expression  came  upon  his  face.  The 
fingers  paused  in  their  occupation  ;  presently 
emerged  and  dived  into  another  pocket  and 
then  into  another.  The  puzzled  expression 
deepened  :  at  last  changed  its  character,  became 
an  expression  of  intense  annoyance.  He  knitted 
his  brows  and  bit  his  lip.  Glancing  up,  he  said, 
"  This  is  really  very  awkward.  I — I  find  I 
haven't  a  sou  about  me.  It's — bother  it  all,  I 
suppose  you'll  take  me  for  a  beat.  But — here, 
I  can  leave  my  watch." 

"  Oh,  that's  entirely  unnecessary,"  I  hastened 
to  put  in.  "  Don't  let  it  distress  you.  To 
morrow,  or  any  other  day  you  happen  to  be 
passing,  will  do  as  well." 

He  looked  at  the  same  time  surprised  and 
relieved.  "  That's  not  a  conservative  way  of 
doing  business,"  he  said.  "  How  do  you  know 
I  may  not  take  advantage  of  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  quite  at  rest  about  that.  You  need 
not  be  disturbed." 

"Well,  such  faith  in  human  nature  is  stimu 
lating,"  he  answered.  "  I  should  hate  to 
imperil  it.  So  you  may  be  sure  I'll  turn  up 
to-morrow.  Meanwhile  I'm  awfully  obliged." 


AS  IT  W 'AS  WRITTEN.  1OI 

Thereat  he  went  away. 

I  paid  his  reckoning  from  my  own  purse,  and 
immediately  fell  again  to  wondering  about  him. 

By  and  by  it  occurred  to  me,  "Why,  that  is 
the  first  human  being  who  has  taken  you  out 
of  yourself  for  the  last  two  years  !  "  And  there 
upon  I  transferred  my  wonder  to  the  interest  he 
had  managed  to  arouse  in  my  own  preoccupied 
mind.  Then  gradually  my  thoughts  flowed 
back  into  their  customary  channels. 

But  early  the  next  day  I  caught  myself  ask 
ing,  "  Will  he  return  ?"  and  devoutly  hoping 
that  he  would.  Not  on  account  of  the  money  ; 
I  had  no  anxiety  about  the  money.  But  some 
how,  self-centered  as  I  was,  I  had  felt  drawn 
toward  this  blue-eyed  young  man,  and  antici 
pated  seeing  him  again  with  an  approach  to 
genuine  pleasure. 

Surely  enough,  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon 
the  door  opened  and  he  entered. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  you  see,  I  am  faithful  to 
my  trust.  Here  is  the  lucre  :  count  it  and  be 
satisfied  that  the  sum  is  just.  Really,"  he 
added,  dropping  the  mock  theatrical  manner  he 
had  assumed,  "  really,  it  was  frightfully  embar- 


102  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

rassing  yesterday.  But  I'm  a  victim  of  absent- 
mindedness,  and  in  changing  my  clothes  I  had 
omitted  to  transfer  my  pocket-book  from  the 
one  suit  to  the  other.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
much  indebted  I  am  for  your  considerateness. 
I  suppose  you  are  overrun  with  dead-beats  who 
play  that  dodge  regularly — eh?  " 

I  gave  him  the  answer  his  question  called  for, 
served  him  with  the  drinkables  he  ordered,  and 
stationed  myself  at  a  respectful  distance. 

He  lighted  his  inevitable  cigarette  and  pro 
duced  his  book.  He  read  and  smoked  for  a  few 
moments  in  silence.  Suddenly  he  flung  the 
book  angrily  upon  the  table,  pushed  back  his 
glass,  and  uttered  an  audible  "  Confound  it !  " 

I  hastened  forward  to  learn  the  subject  of 
his  discomposure  and  to  supply  what  remedy 
I  might. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  ventured,  "  is  there 
any  thing  wrong  with  the  wine?  " 

"  Eh — what  ?  "  he  queried.  "  With  the  wine  ? 
Any  thing  wrong?  Oh — I  perceive.  Oh,  no — 
the  wine's  all  right.  It's  this  beastly  pedantic 
author.  He  is  describing  the  Jewish  ritual,  and 
now  just  observe  his  idiocy.  He  goes  on  at  a 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  103 

great  rate  about  the  beauty  of  a  certain  prayer 
— gets  the  reader's  curiosity  all  screwed  up — 
and  then — fancy  his  airs  ! — and  then  quotes  the 
stuff  in  the  original  Hebrew  !  It's  ridiculous. 
He  doesn't  even  condescend  to  affix  a  transla 
tion  in  a  foot-note.  Look." 

He  opened  the  book  and  pointed,  with  a 
finger  dyed  brown  by  tobacco-smoke,  to  the 
troublesome  passage. 

Now  I,  having  been  brought  up  as  an  or 
thodox  Jew,  had  a  smattering  of  Hebrew,  and 
at  a  glance  I  saw  that  I  could  easily  translate  the 
few  sentences  in  question.  So,  impulsively  and 
without  stopping  to  reflect  that  my  conduct 
might  seem  officious,  I  said,  "  If  you  would  like, 
I  think  perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  aid  you." 

"  What !  "  he  exclaimed,  fixing  a  pair  of  wide 
open  eyes  upon  my  face. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  can  translate  it." 

"  The  deuce !  "  he  cried.  "  I  didn't  suspect 
you  were  a  scholar.  How  in  the  name  of 
goodness  did  you  learn  Hebrew  ?  " 

"  A  scholar  I  am  not,  surely  enough  :  but  I 
am  a  Jew,  and  like  the  rest  of  my  faith  I  stud 
ied  Hebrew  as  a  boy." 


104  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"  Ah,  I  understand.     Well,  fire  away. 

I  took  the  book  and  read  the  Hebrew  aloud. 
It  was  a  prayer,  which,  when  a  child,  I  had 
known  by  heart.  Afterward  I  explained  its 
sense  while  my  friend  jotted  it  down  with  a 
pencil  upon  the  margin. 

"  Thanks/'  he  was  good  enough  to  say.  "  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  without 
your  help. — And  so  you  are  a  Jew  ?  You  don't 
look  it.  You  look  like  a  full-blown  Teuton. 
But  I  congratulate  you  all  the  same." 

"  Congratulate  me  for  looking  like  a  Teuton  ?  " 

The  shop  being  empty,  there  was  no  harm  in 
my  joining  in  conversation  with  a  client. 
Besides,  I  did  not  stop  to  think  whether  there 
was  harm  in  it  or  not.  I  yielded  to  the  attrac 
tion  which  this  young  man  exerted  over  me. 

"  No — for  belonging  to  the  ancient  and 
honorable  race  of  Jews,"  he  answered.  "  Your 
ancestors  were  civilized  and  dwelt  in  cities  and 
wrote  poems,  thousands  of  years  ago  :  whereas 
mine  at  that  epoch  inhabited  caves  and  dressed 
in  bearskins  and  occasionally  dined  on  a  roasted 
neighbor.  I  should  be  proud  of  my  lineage, 
were  I  a  Jew." 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  tOJ 

"  But  it  is  the  fashion  for  the  Gentiles  to 
despise  us." 

"  Oh,  bosh !  It  is  the  fashion  for  a  certain 
ignorant,  stupid  set  of  Philistines  to  do  so — but 
those  who  pretend  to  the  least  enlightenment, 
on  the  contrary,  regard  the  Jews  as  a  most  en 
viable  people.  They  envy  your  history,  they 
envy  the  success  that  waits  upon  your  enter 
prises.  For  my  part,  I  believe  the  whole  future 
of  America  depends  uport  the  Jews." 

"  Indeed,  how  is  that?" 

"  Why.  look  here.  What  is  the  American 
people  to-day  ?  There  is  no  American  people 
— or  rather  there  are  twenty  American  peoples 
• — the  Irish,  the  German,  the  Jewish,  the 
English,  and  the  Negro  elements — all  existing 
independently  at  the  same  time,  and  each  as 
truly  American  as  any  of  the  others.  Good ! 
But  in  the  future,  after  emigration  has  ceased, 
these  elements  will  begin  to  amalgamate.  A 
single  people  of  homogeneous  blood  will  be  the 
consequence.  Do  you  follow?" 

"  I  think  I  follow.     But  the  Jews?  " 

"  But  the  Jews — precisely,  the  Jews.  It  is 
the  Jewish  element  that  is  to  leaven  the  whole 


106  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

lump — color  the  whole  mixture.  The  English 
element  alone  is,  so  to  speak,  one  portion  of 
pure  water ;  the  German  element,  one  portion 
of  eau  sucrSe;  now  add  the  Jewish — it  is  a  dose 
of  rich  strong  wine.  It  will  give  fire  and  flavor 
to  the  decoction.  The  future  Americans,  thanks 
to  the  Jew  in  them,  will  have  passions,  enthusi 
asms.  They  will  paint  great  pictures,  compose 
great  music,  write  great  poems,  be  capable  of 
great  heroism.  Have  I  said  enough  ?  " 

The  result  was  that  we  chatted  together  for 
half  an  hour  with  the  freedom  of  old  acquaint 
ances.  He  quite  made  me  forget  that  I  was  his 
servant  for  the  time,  and  led  me  to  speak  out 
my  mind  with  the  unreserve  of  equal  to  equal. 
I  enjoyed  a  peculiar  sense  of  exhilaration  that 
lasted  even  after  he  had  gone  away.  In  spite  of 
myself  I  could  not  help  relishing  this  contact 
with  a  superior  man.  Again  I  fell  to  wonder 
ing  about  his  occupation.  I  was  more  and 
more  persuaded  that  he  must  be  an  artist  of 
some  sort,  or  a  writer. 

The  next  day  he  came  again,  and  the  next, 
and  the  next,  and  regularly  every  day  at  about 
the  same  hour  for  a  fortnight.  As  surely  as  he 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  107 

seated  himself  at  the  corner  table,  so  surely 
would  he  beckon  to  me  and  begin  to  talk.  In 
these  dialogues  he  afforded  me  no  end  of  enter 
tainment,  touching  in  a  racy  way  upon  a  score 
of  topics.  He  had  resided  abroad  for  some  years 
— seemed  equally  at  home  in  Paris,  Rome,  and 
Munich — and  his  anecdotes  of  foreign  life  were 
like  glimpses  into  dream-land  for  me.  He  had 
the  faculty  of  making  me  forget  myself,  and  for 
that  reason,  if  for  no  other,  I  should  have 
valued  his  friendliness.  Our  interviews  occurred 
as  bright  spots  in  the  sad  gray  monotone  of  my 
daily  life. 


VIII. 

BUT  one  day,  the  fortnight  having  passed,  he 
failed  to  put  in  an  appearance.  I  was  hearti 
ly  disappointed.  I  spent  the  rest  of  the  afternoon 
fathoms  down  in  the  blues — like  an  opium  eater 
deprived  of  his  daily  portion.  It  was  Saturday, 
and  as  usual  at  nightfall  the  shop  filled  up  and 
the  staff  of  waiters  was  kept  busy.  Toward 
ten  o'clock,  long  before  which  hour  I  had 
ceased  altogether  to  expect  him,  the  door 
opened  and  my  friend  came  in.  He  squeezed 
up  between  a  couple  of  Germans  at  one  of  the 
tables,  and  sat  there  smoking  and  reading  an 
evening  paper.  I  had  no  opportunity  to  do 
more  than  acknowledge  the  smile  of  greeting 
with  which  he  favored  me ;  and  it  chanced  that 
the  table  at  which  he  was  established  fell  under 
the  jurisdiction  of  another  waiter.  He  con 
sumed  cigarette  after  cigarette  and  read  his 
paper  through  to  the  very  advertisements  on 
the  last  page;  and  still,  while  the  other  guests 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  IOQ 

came  and  went,  he  staid  on.  At  the  hour  for 
shutting  up  lie  had  not  yet  shown  any  disposi 
tion  to  depart.  His  attendant  carried  off  his 
empty  glass  and  hovered  uneasily  around  his 
chair;  but  he  failed  to  take  the  hint.  At 
length  the  proprietor  began  to  turn  out  the 
lights.  At  this  he  got  up,  buttoned  his  over 
coat,  waved  a  farewell  at  me,  and  passed  be 
yond  the  door. 

I  followed  soon  after.  Turning  up  Second 
avenue,  I  felt  a  hand  laid  gently  upon  my 
shoulder.  "  I  have  been  waiting  for  you,"  saia 
my  friend.  "  Which  way  do  you  walk  ?  "  With 
out  pausing  for  a  reply,  "  You  won't  mind  my 
walking  with  you?"  and  he  linked  his  arm  in 
mine. 

"  I  was  afraid  I  had  seen  the  last  of  you  for 
the  day,"  I  answered.  "  This  is  a  pleasant  sur 
prise,  I  assure  you." 

After  a  few  yards  in  silence  he  resumed,  "I 
say — oh,  by  the  way,  you  have  never  told  me 
your  name?" 

"  My  name  is  Lexow." 

"  What  ?  Lexow  ? — Well,  I  say,  Lexow, 
without  being  indiscreet,  I  should  like  to  ask 


HO  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

how  under  the  sun  you  ever  came  to  be  em- 
ployed  as  you  are  around  in  Herr  Schwartz's 
saloon." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  come  now ;  yes,  you  do  understand,  too," 
he  rejoined.  "  Don't  take  offense  and  be  digni 
fied.  We're  both  young  men,  and  there's  no 
use  in  trying  to  mystify  each  ether.  You 
needn't  tell  me  that  you  have  always  been  a 
waiter.  You're  too  intelligent,  too  much  of  a 
gentleman  in  every  way.  I'm  not  blind  ;  and 
it  doesn't  require  especially  long  spectacles  to 
perceive  that  you  are  something  different  from 
what  you  would  have  us  believe.  I've  seen  a 
good  deal  of  the  world  and  I'm  not  prone  to 
romancing.  So  I  don't  fancy  that  you're  a  king 
in  exile  or  a  Russian  nobleman  or  anything  of 
that  sort.  But  at  the  same  time  I'm  sure  you're 
capable  of  better  things  than  waiting,  and  I 
want  to  know  what  the  trouble  is,  so  that  I  can 
help  to  set  you  back  on  the  right  track." 

"One  confidence  deserves  another.  I  have 
told  you  my  name,  tell  me  yours." 

"  My  name  is  Merivale,  Daniel. — But  don't 
change  the  subject." 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN,  III 

"  Well,  Mr.  Merivale,  I  will  say  then,  that  if 
any  other  man  had  spoken  to  me  as  you  have 
just  done,  I  should  certainly  have  been  offend 
ed.  I  say  this  not  to  reproach  you,  but  to 
show  by  the  fact  that  I'm  not  offended  how 
much  I  think  of  you.  So  you  mustn't  take 
offense  either  when  I  add  that  I  should  prefer 
to  speak  of  other  things." 

"  After  that  I  suppose  I  ought  to  consider 
myself  snubbed.  But,  I  sha'n't,  notwithstand 
ing.  I  shall  simply  take  the  whole  confession  for 
granted.  Now,  Mr.  Mysterious,  I  will  venture 
to  make  three  allegations  of  fact  about  you. 
Promise  to  set  me  right  if  I  am  wrong.  I  as 
sure  you  I  am  actuated  by  disinterested  motives. 
All  you  will  have  to  do  will  be  to  say  yes  or  no. 
Promise." 

"  I  can't  pledge  myself  blindfold.  But  if  the 
'allegations  of  fact '  are  within  certain  limits,  I 
will  satisfy  you — although  I  repeat  I  would 
prefer  a  different  subject." 

"Capital!  Well,  then,  for  a  beginner:  You 
are  or  were  or  have  at  some  time  hoped  to  be, 
an  artist  of  some  sort — eh  ?  " 

"  How  did  you  find  that  out  ?  " — The  query 


II*  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

escaped  involuntarily.  For  a  moment  a  dread 
lest  he  might  have  discovered  my  true  identity, 
darkened  my  mind  :  but  it  was  transitory. 

"  Oh,  you  indorse  allegation  number  one ! 
No  matter  how  I  found  it  out.  I  don't  really 
know  myself — unless  it  was  by  that  instinct 
which  kindred  spirits  have  for  recognizing  one 
another.  But  now  for  allegation  number  two. 
Its  form  shall  be  negative.  You  are  not  a 
painter,  a  sculptor,  an  actor,  or  a  poet." 

"  No,  neither  of  them." 

"  Brava  !  I  could  have  sworn  to  it.  There 
fore  you  are  a  musician.  And  I  will  have  the 
hardihood  to  guess  that  your  instrument  is  the 
violin." 

"  I  confess,  Mr.  Merivale,  that  you  surprise 
me.  You  have  divined  the  truth,  but  for  the 
life  of  me,  I  don't  see  how." 

"  Why,  by  the  simplest  of  possible  means. 
If  one  is  only  observing  and  has  a  knack  of 
putting  two  and  two  together,  most  riddles  can 
easily  be  undone.  After  our  first  interview  I 
said,  That  fellow  is  above  his  station  ;  after  our 
second,  That  fellow  is  an  artist ;  after  our  third, 
I'll  bet  my  head  he  is  a  musician.  I  have  told 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  IIJ 

you  it  was  partly  instinct,  that  made  me  set 
you  down  for  an  artist.  It  was  partly  the  tone 
of  your  conversation-— your  tendency  to  warm 
up  over  matters  pertaining  to  the  arts,  and  to 
cool  down  when  our  talk  verged  the  other  way. 
Then  a — a  certain  ignorance  that  you  betrayed 
about  pictures  and  books  and  statuary  helped 
on  the  process  of  elimination.  I  concluded 
that  you  were  a  musician — which  conclusion 
was  strengthened  by  the  fact  of  your  being  a 
Jew.  Music  is  the  art  in  which  the  Jews  excel. 
And  one  day  a  chance  attitude  that  you  assumed, 
a  twist  of  the  neck,  a  hitch  of  the  shoulder, 
cried  out  Violin  !  as  clearly  as  if  by  word  of 
mouth — though  no  doubt  the  wish  fostered  the 
thought,  for  I  have  always  had  a  predilection 
for  violinists.  Now  I  will  go  further  and 
declare  that  a  chagrin  of  one  kind  or  another 
is  accountable  for  your  present  mode  of  life. 
A  few  years  ago  I  should  have  said  :  A  woman 
in  the  case — disappointment  in  love — and  so 
forth.  Now,  having  become  more  worldly,  I 
say :  Fear  of  failure,  lack  of  self-confidence. 
Answer." 

"  Since  you  are  such  an  adept  at  clairvoy- 


114  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

ance,  I  need  not  answer.  But  don't  let  this 
thing  become  one-sided.  You  too  are  an  artist, 
as  you  have  hinted  and  as  I  had  fancied.  And 
your  art  is  ?  " 

"Guess.     I'll  wager  you'll  never  guess." 

"  No  ;  I  confess  I  am  at  a  loss.  You  seem 
equally  familiar  with  all  the  arts.  One  moment 
I  think  you  are  a  painter;  the  next,  a  sculptor. 
I'm  sure  you're  not  a  musician.  And  on  the 
whole  it  seems  most  probable  that  you  are  in 
some  way  connected  with  literature.  I  don't 
know  why." 

"  Good  !  You  have  hit  the  nail  on  the  head  ! 
In  spite  of  my  slangy  speech  and  my  worldly- 
wisdom,  learn  that  I  aspire  to  become  a  poet ! 
the  poet  of  the  practical,  of  the  every  day,  of 
the  passions  of  modern  life.  As  yet,  however, 
I  am,  as  the  French  put  it,  intdit.  The  maga 
zines  repudiate  me.  lam  too  downright,  too 
careless  of  euphemism,  to  suit  their  dainty  pages. 
But  this  is  aside  from  the  point.  The  point  is 
that  I  want  to  hear  you  play." 

"  Impossible.  For  me  music  is  a  thing  of 
the  past.  I  haven't  touched  a  violin  these  two 
years.  I  shall  never  touch  one  again." 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  115 

"  Bah,  bah !  Excuse  my  frankness,  but  don't 
be  a  child.  If  you  haven't  touched  your  violin 
for  two  years,  you  have  allowed  two  precious 
years  to  leak  away.  All  the  more  reason  for 
stopping  the  leak  at  once.  Come  in." 

"We  had  arrived  in  front  of  an  English- 
basement  house  in  Seventeenth  street. 

"  Come  in,"  he  repeated.  "  This  is  where  I 
live." 

"  It  is  too  late,"  I  said. 

"  Nonsense,"  he  retorted.  "  It  is  never  too 
late.  Advance ! " 

I  followed  him  into  the  house. 

The  room  to  which  he  conducted  me  was 
precisely  the  sort  of  room  one  would  have 
expected.  It  was  chock-full  of  odds  and  ends, 
piled  about  in  hopeless  confusion.  The  walls 
were  hung  with  a  reddish  paper,  and  freckled 
with  framed  and  unframed  pictures — etchings, 
engravings,  water-colors,  charcoals — some  sus 
pended  correctly  by  wires  from  the  cornice, 
others  pinned  up  loosely  by  their  corners.  The 
ceiling  was  tinted  to  harmonize  with  the  walls. 
The  floor  was  carpetless,  of  hard  wood,  waxed 


Il6  AS  IT  IV AS  WRITTEN. 

to  a  high  degree  of  clipperiness,  and  relieved 
by  a  sporadic  rug  or  two.  Bits  of  porcelain 
and  metal  ware,  specimens  of  old  Italian  carv 
ing,  Chinese  sculptures  in  ivory,  rich  tapestries, 
bronze  and  plaster  reproductions  of  antique 
statuary,  and  books  of  all  sizes  and  descriptions 
and  in  all  stages  of  decay,  were  scattered  hither 
and  thither  without  a  pretense  to  order.  On 
the  whole  the  effect  of  the  room  was  pleasant, 
though  it  resembled  somewhat  closely  that  of 
a  curiosity-shop  gone  mad.  My  host  informed 
me  that  it  was  Liberty  Hall  and  bade  me  make 
myself  at  home.  Producing  a  flagon  of  Bene 
dictine,  he  said  laconically,  "  Drink." 

We  drank  together  in  silence.  Turning  his 
emptied  glass  upside  down,  "  Now,"  he  cried, 
"  now  for  the  music.  Now  you  are  going  to 
play." 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  had  forgotten  about 
that,"  I  answered. 

"  Tis  not  among  my  talents  to  forget,"  he 
declaimed,  theatrically.  "  You  must  prepare  to 
limber  up  your  fingers." 

"  Really,  Mr.  Merivale,"  I  insisted,  "  you 
don't  know  what  you  are  asking.  I  should  no 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  11? 

more  think  of  touching  a  violin  to-night  than, 
than — no  need  of  a  comparison.  The  long  and 
short  of  the  matter  is  that  I  have  the  best  of 
reasons  for  not  wanting  to  play,  and  that  the 
most  you  can  urge  to  the  contrary  won't  alter 
my  resolution.  I  hate  to  seem  boorish  or  dis 
obliging,  but  really  I  can't  help  it.  Besides,  my 
instrument  is  a  mile  away  and  unstrung,  and  it 
is  so  late  that  the  other  occupants  of  this  house 
would  be  annoyed.  And  as  the  subject  is 
extremely  painful  to  me, -I  wish  you  would  let 
it  drop." 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  going  to  treat  the  matter 
au  grand  strieux"  said  Merivale,  "  I  suppose  I 
must  give  in.  But  you  have  no  idea  of  how 
disappointed  I  shall  be.  As  for  an  instrument, 
I've  a  fiddle  of  my  own  in  the  next  room—  one 
that  I  scrape  on  now  and  then  myself.  As  for 
the  other  occupants  of  this  house,  I  pay  double 
rent  on  the  condition  that  my  quarters  are  to 
be  my  castle,  and  that  I  can  create  as  much 
rumpus  in  them,  day  and  night,  as  I  desire.  If 
I  were  disposed  to  do  so,  I  could  make  this  a 
broad  proposition  of  ethics,  and  maintain  that 
as  an  artist  you  have  no  right  to  decline  to 


Il8  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

exercise  your  skill.  Your  talent  is  given  you  in 
trust — a  trust  which  you  violate  when  you  bury 
the  talent  in  the  ground.  But  I  won't  go  so  far 
as  that.  I'll  simply  ask  you  as  a  favor  to  play 
for  me,  and,  if  after  that  you  are  still  obstinate, 
I'll  hold  my  peace." 

"  Well,  I  am  forced  to  be  obstinate.  Now 
let's  change  the  subject." 

"  I  bow  my  head.  Only,  perhaps  you  will 
make  a  single  concession.  As  I  have  said,  I 
am  the  possessor  of  a  fiddle.  It  is  one  I  picked 
up  in  Rome.  I  bought  it  of  a  seedy  Italian 
nobleman ;  and  he  claimed  it  for  a  rare 
one — a  Stradivari,  in  fact.  I'm  no  judge 
of  such  things,  and  most  likely  was  taken  in. 
Will  you  look  at  it  and  give  me  your 
opinion  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  no  objection  to  doing  that," 
I  said,  glad  to  prove  myself  not  altogether 
churlish. 

",Here  it  is,"  he  continued,  putting  the  violin 
into  my  hands. 

It  was  a  beautiful  instrument  from  an  optical 
standpoint.  What  remained  of  the  varnish  was 
ruddy  and  crystalline,  and  as  smooth  as  amber. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  119 

The  curves  were  exquisite.  It  was  also  either 
genuinely  old  or  a  marvelous  imitation.  Its 
interior  was  dark  and  dirty — an  excellent  con 
dition.  I  could  descry  no  label  there — another 
favorable  sign.  Was  it  indeed  a  Stradivari  ? 
Formerly  it  had  been  an  ambition  of  mine  to 
play  upon  a  Stradivari ;  an  ambition  which  I 
had  never  had  a  chance  to  gratify,  because 
among  the  dozen  so-called  Stradivaris  that  I 
had  come  upon  here  and  there,  I  had  found  not 
one  but  betrayed  its  fraudulent  origin  from  the 
instant  the  bow  was  drawn  across  the  strings. 
Something  of  the  old  feeling  revived  in  me  as 
I  held  this  instrument  in  my  hands,  and  before 
I  had  thought,  my  finger  mechanically  picked 
the  A  string.  The  clear,  bell-like  tone  that 
responded,  caused  me  to  start.  I  had  never 
heard  such  a  tone  as  this  produced  before  by 
the  mere  picking  of  a  string. 

"  I  believe  you  have  a  treasure  here,"  I  ex 
claimed.  "  I'm  not  connoisseur  enough  to  say 
whether  it  is  a  Stradivari ;  but  whoever  its 
maker  was,  it's  a  superb  instrument." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  "  cried  Merivale. 
"  Try  it  with  the  bow." 


I»0  AS  IT  IV AS  WRITTEN. 

He  thrust  the  bow  upon  me.  Without  allow 
ing  myself  time  to  hesitate,  I  touched  the  bow  to 
the  strings  :  the  result  was  a  voice  from  heaven,  so 
clear,  so  broad,  so  sweet,  of  such  magnetic 
quality,  that  it  actually  frightened  me,  made 
my  heart  palpitate,  summoned  a  myriad  dead 
emotions  back  to  life.  And  yet  I  felt  an  irresist 
ible  temptation  to  continue,  to  push  the  experi 
ment  at  least  a  trifle  further. 

"Tune  it  up,"  said  Merivale. 

I  complied.  That  was  the  final  stroke.  After 
I  had  drawn  the  bow  for  a  second  time  across 
the  cat-gut,  there  was  no  resisting.  I  lost  pos 
session  of  myself :  ere  I  knew  it,  I  was  pouring 
my  life  out  through  the  wonderful  voice  of  the 
Stradivari. 

I  don't  remember  what  I  played.  Most  prob 
ably  it  was  a  medley  of  reminiscences.  I  only 
remember  that  for  the  first  few  minutes  I  suf 
fered  the  tortures  of  the  damned — an  army  of 
devils  were  tugging  at  my  heart-strings — and 
withal  I  had  no  power  to  restrain  the  motion 
of  my  arm  and  lay  the  violin  aside.  Then,  I 
remember,  the  pain  gradually  turned  to 
pleasure,  to  an  immense  sense  of  relief,  as 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  131 

though  all  the  woe  pent  up  in  the  recesses  of 
my  soul  had  suddenly  found  an  outlet  and  was 
gushing  forth  in  a  tremendous  flood  of  sound. 
As  I  felt  it  ebbing  away,  like  a  poison  let  loose 
from  my  veins,  somehow  time  and  space  were 
annihilated,  facts  were  undone,  truth  changed 
to  falsehood.  Veronika  and  I  were  alone  to 
gether  in  the  pure  realm  of  spirit  while  I  told 
her  in  the  million  tempestuous  variations  of  my 
music  the  whole  story  of  my  sorrow  and  my 
adoration.  I  listened  to  the  music  precisely  as 
though  it  had  been  played  by  another  person  ;  I 
heard  it  grow  soft  and  softer  and  melt  into  a 
scarcely  audible  whisper  ;  I  heard  it  soar  away 
into  mighty,  passionate  crescendi ;  I  heard  it 
modulate  swiftly  from  prayerful  minor  to 
triumphant,  defiant  major;  I  heard  it  laugh  like 
a  child,  plead  like  a  lover,  sob  like  Mary  at  the 
tomb  of  Christ ;  I  heard  it  wax  wrathful  like  a 
God  in  anger.  And  I — I  was  caught  up  and 
borne  away  and  tossed  from  high  to  low  by  It 
like  a  leaf  on  the  bosom  of  the  ocean.  And  at 
last  I  heard  the  sharp  retort  of  a  breaking 
string  ;  and  I  sank  into  a  chair,  exhausted. 
I  think  I  must  have  come  very  near  to  faint- 


132  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

ing.  When  I  gathered  together  my  senses  and 
opened  my  eyes  I  was  weak,  nerveless,  be 
wildered.  Merivale  stood  in  front  of  me,  his 
gaze  fixed  upon  my  face. 

"  In  God's  name,"  I  heard  him  say,  "  tell  me 
what  you  are.  Such  music  as  you  have  played 
upsets  all  my  established  notions,  undermines 
my  philosophy,  forces  me  back  in  spite  of  my 
self  to  a  belief  in  witchcraft  and  magic.  Are 
you  a  Merlin  ?  Have  you  indeed  the  secret  of 
enchantment  ?  It  is  hardly  credible  that  simple 
human  genius  wove  that  wonderful  web  of 
melody — which  has  at  last  come  to  an  end, 
thank  heaven !  If  I  had  had  to  listen  a  moment 
longer,  I  should  have  broken  down.  The  strain 
was  too  intense.  You  have  taken  me  with  you 
through  hell  and  heaven." 

Still  weak  and  nerveless,  I  could  not  com- 
mand  my  voice. 

"You  are  faint,"  he  exclaimed.  "The  effort 
has  tired  you  out.  No  wonder :  here — drink 
this."  He  held  a  glass  to  my  lips.  I  drank  its 
contents.  Presently  I  felt  a  glow  of  warmth  radi 
ating  through  my  limbs.  Then  I  was  able  to 
stir  and  to  speak. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  12 J 

"  Through  hell  and  heaven,"  I  repeated, 
echoing  his  words.  "  Yes,  we  have  been  through 
hell  and  heaven." 

"  It  was  a  frightful  experience,"  he  added, 
"  more  than  I  bargained  for  when  I  asked  you 
to  play." 

"  You  must  forgive  me  ;  I  was  carried  away ; 
I  had  no  intention  of  harrowing  you,  but  I  had 
not  played  for  so  long  a  time  that  my  emotions 
got  the  best  of  me." 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  like  that,"  he  protested.  "  It 
was  a  frightful  experience,  but  it  was  one  I 
would  not  have  missed.  I  had  never  dreamed 
that  music  could  work  such  an  effect  upon  me; 
but  now  I  can  understand  the  ardor  with  which 
musicians  love  their  art ;  I  can  understand  the 
claims  they  make  in  its  behalf.  It  is  indeed 
the  most  powerful  influence  that  can  be 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  feelings.  For  my 
part  I  never  was  so  deeply  moved  before — not 
even  by  Dante.  But  tell  me,  how  did  you 
acquire  your  wonderful  skill  ?  What  must 
your  life  have  been  in  order  that  you  should 
play  like  that  ?  " 

"  Of '  wonderful  skill '  I  have  little  enough.  To- 


124  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

night  perhaps  I  played  with  a  certain  enthusiasm 
because  I  was  excited.  But  you  attribute  too 
much  to  me.  A  musician  would  have  descried 
a  score  of  faults.  My  technique  has  deserted 
me  ;  but  even  when  I  used  to  practice  regularly, 
I  occupied  a  very  low  grade  in  my  profession.'1 

"  I  care  not  how  you  used  to  play,  nor  how 
you  were  rated,  nor  how  fau^y  your  technique 
may  be.  You  play  now  with  a  force  that  is  more 
than  human.  I  am  not  given  either  to  flattery 
or  to  exaggeration,  and  I  am  not  easily  stirred  up. 
But  you  have  stirred  me  up,  clear  down  to  the 
marrow  of  my  bones.  Perhaps  these  two  years 
of  abstinence  have  but  ripened  the  genius  that 
was  already  in  you — allowed  it  time  to  ferment. 
Tell  me,  what  depths  of  joy  and  sorrow  have 
you  sounded  to  gather  the  secrets  you  have  just 
revealed  with  your  violin  ?  What  has  your 
life  been  ?  " 

"  My  life  has  been  a  very  simple  one,  and  -for 
the  most  part  very  prosaic." 

"  You  might  as  well  call  the  sun  cold,  the  sea 
motionless,  as  pretend  that  your  life  has  been 
prosaic.  Friend,  the  only  element  that  gives 
life  and  magnetism  to  art  is  profound,  human 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN,  12$ 

truth.  That  which  touches  us  in  a  picture,  a 
poem,  or  a  symphony,  is  its  likeness  to  the 
truth,  its  nature,  especially  its  human  nature. 
That  is  what  makes  Wilhelm  Meister  a  power 
ful  book,  because  each  page  is  written,  so  to 
speak,  in  human  blood.  That  is  what  makes 
Titian's  Assumption  a  great  picture,  because 
the  agony  in  the  Madonna's  face  is  true  human 
agony.  And  that  is  what  gave  your  music  of  a 
moment  since  the  power  to  pierce  the  very  in 
nermost  of  my  heart — because  it  was  true  music, 
the  expression  of  true  human  passion.  Tell 
me,  what  manner  of  life  have  you  lived,  to  learn 
so  much  of  the  deep  things  of  human  ex 
perience?  " 

I  looked  into  his  clear,  earnest  .eyes.  They 
shone  with  a  sympathy  that  fell  as  balm  upon  my 
wounds.  An  impulse  that  I  could  not  battle 
with  unsealed  my  lips.  I  told  him  my  whole 
story  from  first  to  last. 

Some  of  the  time,  as  I  was  speaking,  he  sat 
motionless  with  his  brow  buried  in  his  hands. 
Some  of  the  time  he  paced  up  and  down  the 
floor.  He  smoked  constantly.  Twice  or  thrice 
he  extended  his  palm  to  bid  me  pause,  indicat- 


126  AS  IT  WAS  WK1TTEN. 

ing  by  nodding  his  head  when  he  wished  me  to 
go  on.  Not  once  did  he  verbally  interrupt,  nor 
for  a  long  while  after  I  had  done  did  he  speak. 

By  and  by  he  grasped  my  hand  and  wrenched 
it  hard  and  said,  "  Will — will  you  understand 
by  my  silence  what  I  feel  ?  It  would  be  sacri 
lege  for  me  to  talk  about  this  thing.  I — I — oh, 
what  a  fool  I  am  to  open  my  mouth !  " 

But  presently  he  cried,  "  The  injustice,  the 
humiliation,  that  you  have  been  put  to !  It  is 
shameful.  To  think  that  they  dared  to  try  you, 
as  though  the  mere  sight  of  your  face  was  not 
sufficient  to  prove  you  incapable  of  the  first 
thought  of  crime  !  But  I  can  understand  your 
motive  for  not  wishing  to  hunt  the  Marshalls 
down.  Only  of  this  I  am  sure,  that  if  there  is 
any  such  thing  as  equity  in  this  world,  some 
day  their  guilt  will  be  made  manifest  and  they 
will  receive  the  chastisement  which  they  deserve. 
Oh,  how  you  have  suffered  !  I  tell  you,  it 
sobers  a  man,  it  reminds  him  of  the  seriousness 
of  things,  the  spectacle  of  such  a  colossal  sor 
row  as  yours  has  been." 

Again  silence.  Eventually  he  crossed  over 
to  the  window  and  sent  the  curtains  rattling 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  I»7 

across  their  pole.  It  was  getting  light  outside. 
I  pulled  myself  together.  Rising,  "Well,"  I 
said,  "  good-by.  My  visit  to  you  has  been 
like  a  sojourn  in  another  world.  Now,  I  must 
return  to  my  own  dreary  sphere.  Forgive  me 
if  I  have  wearied  you  with  all  this  talk  about 
myself.  I  seemed  to  speak  without  meaning  to 
— involuntarily.  Once  started,  I  could  not 
have  stopped  myself,  had  I  tried." 

"  Don't  speak  like  that,"  he  rejoined  hastily 
and  with  a  look  of  reproach.  "  Don't  make  me 
feel  that  you  repent  your  confidence.  It  was 
only  right,  only  natural,  that  you  should  unbosom 
yourself  to  me.  It  was  the  consecration  of  our 
friendship.  Friendship  is  never  complete  until 
it  has  been  tested  in  the  fire  of  sorrow.  Mere 
companionship  in  pleasure  is  not  friendship. 
No  matter  how  intimately  we  might  have  seen 
each  other,  we  should  never  have  been  friends 
until  you  had  told  me  this. — Moreover,  don't 
get  up.  You  must  not  think  of  going  away  as 

yet." 

"  As  yet  ?  Why,  I  have  outstaid  the  night 
itself.  I  must  make  haste  or  I  shall  be  behind 
hand  at  the  shop." 


Il8  AS  IT  W 'AS  WRIT  TEN. 

"You  must  not  think  of  returning  to  the 
shop  to-day.  You  must  go  to  bed  and  have 
some  sleep.  When  you  awake  again  I  shall 
have  a  proposition  to  lay  before  you.  For  the 
present  follow  me — 

"  But  Mr.  Merivale— " 

"  But  I  anticipate  your  objections.  But  they 
are  worthless.  But  the  shop  may,  and  I  de 
voutly  hope  it  will,  be  struck  by  lightning. 
Furthermore,  if  you  are  anxious  about  it,  I'll 
send  word  around  to  the  effect  that  you're  un 
well  and  not  able  to  report  for  duty.  That's 
the  truth.  But  any  how  I  have  a  particular 
reason  for  wanting  to  keep  possession  of  you 
for  a  while  longer.  Now,  be  tractable — as  an 
indulgence,  do  what  I  ask." 

There  was  no  resisting  the  appeal  in  Merivale's 
big  blue  eyes.  I  followed  him  as  he  desired. 
He  led  me  into  the  adjoining  room,  where  there 
were  two  narrow  brass  bedsteads  side  by  side. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  I  was  prepared  for  you. 
Here  is  your  couch,  ready  for  your  reception. 
It's  rather  odd  about  this.  I'm  a  great  hand 
for  presentiments  :  and  experience  has  taught 
me  to  believe  in  their  coming  true.  When  I 


AS  IT  W 'AS  WRITTEN.  129 

took  these  quarters  I  said  to  myself,  '  Pythias, 
the  Damon  you  have  been  waiting  for  all  these 
years  will  arrive  while  you  are  bivouacked  here. 
Be  therefore  in  a  condition  to  welcome  him 
properly.'  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  was  thor 
oughly  persuaded,  I  felt  in  my  bones,  that 
Damon's  advent  would  occur  during  my  occu 
pancy  of  these  rooms.  So  I  bought  two  bed 
steads  and  two  dressing-stands  instead  of  one. — 
I  have  got  the  heroes  of  the  old  legend  some 
what  mixed  up  ;  can't  remember  which  was 
which :  but  I  trust  I'm  not  egotistic  in  assign 
ing  the  part  of  Damon  to  you  and  keeping  that 
of  Pythias  for  myself.  At  any  rate,  it's  a  mere 
figure  of  speech,  and  as  such  must  be  taken. 
Now,  Damon  or  Pythias,  whichever  you  may 
be,  in  begging  you  to  make  yourself  comfort 
able  here,  I  am  simply  inviting  you  to  partake 
of  your  own." 

As  he  rattled  on  thus,  he  had  produced 
sheets  and  blankets  from  a  chest  of  drawers 
near  at  hand,  and  now  was  making  the  bed 
with  the  deftness  of  an  expert. 

"  There,"  he  exclaimed,  bestowing  a  farewell 
poke  upon  the  pillow,  "  now  go  to  bed  with  a 

9 


1 3»  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

clear  conscience  and  a  mind  at  peace.  I  shall 
speedily  follow.  In  the  morning — I  mean  in 
the  afternoon — we  will  resume  our  session." 

He  had  the  delicacy  to  leave  me  alone.  I 
was  too  fatigued  to  reason  about  what  I  was 
doing.  I  undressed  quickly,  got  into  bed,  and 
fell  sound  asleep. 

The  sunlight  was  streaming  through  the 
window  when  I  awoke.  Merivale  was  seated 
upon  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"  Ah,"  he  cried,  as  I  opened  my  eyes,  "  wel 
come  back !  " 

"  Eh,  how  ?  "  I  queried,  perplexed  for  the 
moment.  "  Oh  yes  ;  I  remember.  Have  I 
been  asleep  long  ?  " 

"  So  long  that  I  thought  you  were  never 
going  to  wake  up.  It's  past  four  in  the  after 
noon,  and  you  have  been  sleeping  steadily  since 
six  this  morning.  I  had  the  utmost  hardship 
in  subduing  my  impatience.  Ten  solid  hours  of 
sleep !  You  must  have  been  thoroughly  ex 
hausted." 

"You  ought  to  have  roused  me.  One  can 
gorge  one's  system  with  sleep  as  easily  as  with 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  131 

food.  I  have  slept  too  much.  But — but  how 
shall  I  ever  make  amends  at  the  shop  ?  " 

"  Bother  the  shop  !  The  shop  no  longer  ex 
ists.  I  have  caused  its  annihilation  during  the 
day." 

"  Have  you  Aladdin's  lamp?" 

"  I  have  a  substitute  for  it,  at  least.  The 
shop  has  been  transported  to  Alaska." 

"  That  was  unkind  of  you.  Now  I  shall  have 
to  undergo  the  expense  of  a  journey  thither. 
Besides,  I  prefer  a  more  temperate  climate. — 
But  seriously,  did  you  send  word  as  you  agreed 
to?" 

"  I  saw  Herr  Schwartz  personally." 

"  Ah,  that  was  very  thoughtful.  Did  you 
succeed  in  appeasing  him  ?  " 

"  I  told  him  that  you  wished  to  resign  your 
position  ;  and  when  he  began  to  splutter,  I 
added  that  in  consideration  of  the  trouble  he 
would  be  put  to,  you  were  willing  to  forgive 
him  whatever  back  pay  he  owed  you  ;  and  when 
he  declared  that  he  owed  you  no  back  pay  at 
all,  I  said  you  would  be  willing  to  forgive  him 
any  way  on  general  principles,  and  think  no 
more  about  it.  Then  I  ordered  beer  and  cigars 


13*  AS  IT  WAS  WKITTEN. 

and  pronounced  the  magic  syllable  '  selbst,'  and 
in  the  end  he  appeared  quite  reconciled." 

"  Nonsense.  Be  serious.  What  did  you 
say?" 

"  I  am  serious.  That  is  what  I  said  pre 
cisely." 

"  What,  you — oh  come,  you  can't  be  in 
earnest." 

"  But  I  assure  you  I  am  in  earnest,  never  was 
more  in  earnest  in  my  life.  You  don't  really 
imagine  that  I  am  going  to  let  you  '  stand  and 
wait  '  any  longer,  do  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  very  clearly  see  how  you  are  going 
to  prevent  it.  I  have  my  livelihood  to  earn. 
I  can't  afford  to  throw  up  my  employment  in 
the  cavalier  manner  you  propose.  It's  ridicu 
lous." 

"  I  can  prevent  it  and  I  will  prevent  it. 
How  ?  By  the  power  of  friendship,  by  appeal 
ing  to  your  heart  and  to  your  reason.  As  for 
your  livelihood,  I  have  found  you  a  new  occu 
pation,  one  more  befitting  your  character. 
Henceforward  you  are  to  be  a  private  secretary." 

"  Whose  private  secretary?  " 

"  Never  mind  whose — or  rather,  you  will  learn 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  IJJ 

whose,  presently.  First,  accustom  your  mind 
to  the  abstract  idea." 

"  Really,  Merivale,  you  are  outrageous.  I 
don't  know  why  I'm  not  indignant.  You  med 
dle  with  my  affairs  as  if  they  were  your  own. 
You  have  no  right  to  do  so.  And  yet  I  am 
not  angry.  I  must  be  totally  devoid  of  spunk. 
But  nevertheless  I  shan't  abide  by  your  pro- 
ceedings.  As  soon  as  I  am  dressed  I  shall 
return  to  the  shop  and  beg  Herr  Schwartz  to 
t^ke  me  back." 

"  I  forbid  it." 

"  I  am  sorry,  but  I  must  defy  your  prohibi 
tion.  By  the  way,  may  I  inquire  your  au 
thority  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  It  is  every  man's  authority  to 
restrain  a  lunatic.  Your  notion  of  returning  to 
that  wine-shop  is  downright  lunacy.  Besides, 
have  I  not  provided  you  with  new  employ 
ment?" 

"  But  it  is  a  sort  of  employment  which  I 
don't  wish  to  undertake.  I  prefer  work  that 
will  leave  my  mind  disengaged.  You  ought  to 
understand  that  in  my  position  one  has  no  heart 
for  any  but  manual  labor." 


134  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"  I  think  I  understand  perfectly,  better  in 
deed  than  you  yourself.  I  understand  that 
while  the  first  shock  of  your  grief  lasted  it  was 
natural  for  you  to  take  up  the  first  employment 
that  you  chanced  upon,  no  matter  what  it  was. 
But  I  understand  now  that  it  is  high  time  for 
you  to  come  back  to  your  proper  level. 
An  occupation  which  leaves  your  mind 
disengaged  is  precisely  the  very  worst  you 
could  have.  With  all  appreciation  of  the 
magnitude  of  your  bereavement,  and  with 
all  reverence  for  your  fidelity  to  your  betrothed, 
I  say  that  it  is  wrong  of  you  to  brood  over  your 
troubles.  I  am  not  brute  enough  to  advise  you 
to  court  oblivion ;  but  a  grief  loses  its  dignity, 
becomes  a  species  of  egotism,  by  constantly 
brooding  over  it.  It  is  our  duty  in  this  world 
to  accept  the  inevitable  with  the  best  grace 
possible,  and  to  make  ourselves  as  comfortable 
as  under  the  circumstances  we  can.  But  over 
and  above  that  consideration  there  is  this,  that 
no  man  has  a  right  to  do  work  that  is  unworthy 
of  him.  It  degrades  himself  and  it  robs  society. 
Every  man  is  bound  to  do  his  best  work,  to 
accomplish  his  highest  usefulness.  What  would 


AS  TT  WAS  WRITTEN.  IJ$ 

you  say  of  a  Newton  who  had  abandoned 
mathematics  to  drive  a  plow?  You  arc  as 
much  subject  to  the  general  moral  law  as  the 
rest  of  us.  You  were  sent  into  this  world  to 
contribute  your  quota  to  the  sum  of  human 
happiness ;  and  your  art  was  permitted  you 
only  on  the  condition  that  you  should  cultivate 
it  for  the  benefit  of  your  fellow  creatures.  And 
yet,  you  propose  to  do  the  business  of  a  common 
waiter  in  a  wretched  little  brasserie.  Now,  I 
won't  urge  you  to  return  to  music  forthwith, 
because  I  know  you  suffer  too  keenly  while  you 
are  playing.  But  I  will  say :  Remember  that 
you  are  a  gentleman  and  that  you  are  actually 
stealing  from  society  by  doing  that  which  your 
inferiors  could  do  as  well.  For  the  present, 
accept  the  situation  of  private  secretary  that  I 
have  procured  for  you.  It  will  be  a  stepping- 
stone  toward  your  proper  place. — You  see,  I 
can  be  a  preacher  on  occasions." 

"  And  your  sermon,   I  confess,   is  a  whole 
some  one." 

"Then  you  will  consider  the  secretaryship?" 
"  I  will  consider  whatever  you  wish  me  to.    I 
will  be  guided  by  your  common  sense." 


Ij6  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

11  Good  !  Now  get  up  and  dress." 

He  left  the  room.  As  I  dressed  I  thought 
over  the  sermon  he  had  preached.  I  could  not 
gainsay  its  truth.  Yet  on  the  other  hand  I  could 
not  contemplate  a  changed  mode  of  life  with 
out  flinching.  Two  years  of  moral  illness  had 
undermined  my  moral  courage.  I  wondered  who 
my  new  employer  was  to  be.  I  dreaded  meet 
ing  him  not  a  little.  Thinking  over  the  con 
fidences  of  the  night,  I  experienced  no  regret. 
Indeed  I  was  glad  to  realize  that  I  was  no 
longer  altogether  alone  in  the  world.  Merivale 
had  inspired  me  with  an  enthusiasm. 

"  What  a  splendid  fellow  he  is  !  "I  exclaimed. 
"  If  he  and  I  could  only  remain  together  I  believe 
I  should  find  my  life  worth  living.  It  is  marvel 
ous,  the  faculty  he  has  for  making  me  forget 
myself.  I  suppose  it  is  due  to  his  animal  spirits, 
his  healthy  temperament.  He  is  as  vigorous 
and  bracing  as  a  whiff  of  the  west  wind  full  in 
one's  face." 

I  had  never  had  a  friend  before.  I  relished 
my  first  taste  of  friendship. 

Meantime  I  was  preparing  my  toilet.  In  the 
midst  of  it  Merivale  came  into  the  room. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  137 

"  I  suppose  you  know  who  your  future  mas 
ter  is  to  be  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No — how  should  I  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  obtuse  blockhead  !     You " 

"  It  isn't — you  don't  mean  to  say —  "  I  be 
gan,  a  suspicion  of  the  truth  dawning  upon 
me. 

"  Exactly !  That  is  the  precise  sum  and  sub 
stance  of  what  I  mean  to  say.  I  mean  to  say 
that  I'm  in  need  of  somebody  to  help  me  in 
certain  work  that  I'm  doing.  The  need  is  a 
real  one,  not  an  artificial  one  trumped  up  for 
the  occasion.  I  have  plenty  of  cash  and  am 
ready  to  pay  what  is  just  for  my  assistant's 
time.  You  on  the  other  hand  are  looking  about 
fora  means  of  subsistence.  At  the  same  time, 
luckily,  you  are  just  the  person  to  suit  my  pur 
pose.  Hence,  as  a  pure  matter  of  business,  I 
say,  Shall  we  strike  a  bargain  ?  You  are  going 
to  be  sensible  and  answer,  Yes.  Wherefore  it 
only  remains  for  me  to  explain  the  nature  of  the 
work  and  thus  to  convince  you  that  you  are  not 
going  to  draw  the  salary  of  a  sinecure." 

"  If  this  is  really  true,"  I  said,  "  I  can't  help 
telling  you  that  nothing  could  make  me  hap- 


138  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

pier.  If  I  can  really  be  of  service  to  you,  and 
if  we  can  really  arrange  to  keep  as  closely  to 
gether  as  such  work  would  bring  us,  why,  my 
contentment  will  be  greater  than  T  can  say." 

"Then  come  into  the  next  room  and  judge 
for  yourself." 

We  passed  into  the  sitting-room.  Merivale 
drew  up  to  a  table  near  the  window  and  taking 
a  pen  in  his  hand  said,  "  Look." 

He  tried  the  pen's  nib  upon  the  nail  of  his 
thumb,  dipped  it  into  an  inkstand,  and  applied 
it  to  a  blank  sheet  of  paper.  Then  his  ringers 
began  to  work  laboriously  to  and  fro,  with  the 
result  of  tracing  a  scarcely  legible  scrawl.  One 
could,  however,  by  dint  of  taxing  the  imagina 
tion,  make  out  these  words :  "  Good  friend,  to 
end  all  doubt  about  the  present  matter,  learn  by 
this  that  a  penman's  palsy  shakes  my  fist,  and 
furthermore,  that  I  inherit  a  lamentable  ten 
dency  to  gout  in  the  wrist." 

"  Scrivener's  palsy  and  gout  combined,"  he 
added  verbally,  "  and  yet  I  am  going  to  pub 
lish  a  volume  of  poems  in  the  spring.  They're 
all  down  on  paper,  but  no  one  can  decipher 
them  except  myself ;  and  if  I  should  be  carried 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  139 

off  some  day  unexpectedly,  think  what  the 
world  would  lose  !  My  idea  is  to  dictate  them 
to  you.  We  will  work  from  nine  till  one  every 
day,  and  devote  the  rest  of  our  time  to  relaxa 
tion." 

"  But  you  take  my  handwriting  for  granted," 
I  interposed. 

"  I  think  I  am  safe  in  doing  so,"  he  replied. 
"  But  give  me  a  sample." 

I  wrote  off  a  few  words. 

"  Capital !  "  was  his  comment.  "  Now  about 
the  compensation." 

I  had  to  haggle  with  my  generous  friend  and 
to  beat  him  down  half  of  his  original  offer. 
My  stipend  settled,  "  I  admit,"  said  he,  "that 
I  am  ravenously  hungry.  Suppose  we  dine  ?  " 

We  adjourned  to  Moretti's.  During  the 
dinner  we  discussed  our  future.  He  said  he 
was  constantly  writing  new  matter  and  there, 
fore  our  contract  would  not  terminate  with  the 
completion  of  the  particular  MS.  in  question. 
"  Ah,  what  good  times  we  are  going  to  enjoy  !  " 
he  cried.  "  We  are  perfectly  companionable  ! 
There  is  nothing  so  satisfactory,  nothing  so 
productive  of  bien  ttrg,  as  friendship,  after  all." 


140  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

Dinner  over,  we  strolled  arm  in  arm  through 
the  streets.  For  the  first  time  in  two  years  I 
began  to  feel  that  the  world  was  not  quite  a 
ruin.  At  home  we  talked  till  late  into  the 
night.  And  when  I  went  to  bed  it  was  to  lie 
awake  for  hours  and  hours,  congratulating 
myself  upon  my  newly  discovered  friend. 


IX. 

ON  the  morrow  morning  our  regime  was  inau 
gurated  :  and  thenceforward  we  kept  it  up 
regularly.  From  nine  till  one  I  wrote  at  his 
dictation.  The  task  was  by  no  means  irksome. 
I  enjoyed  my  friend's  poetry  :  and  besides,  we 
varied  the  business  with  frequent  interruptions 
for  conversation  and  cigarettes.  Merivale 
taught  me  to  smoke — a  vice,  if  it  be  a  vice, 
from  which  I  have  since  derived  no  little  solace. 
At  one  o'clock  our  luncheon  was  served  up  to 
us  by  the  lady  of  the  house :  and  the  remainder 
of  the  day  we  employed  as  best  suited  our 
fancy.  Sometimes  we  would  take  turns  at 
reading  aloud.  In  this  way  we  read  much  of 
Browning  and  Rossetti,  two  poets  till  then  total 
strangers  to  me.  Sometimes  we  would  saunter 
about  the  lower  quarters  of  the  city.  Merivale 
never  tired  of  the  glimpses  these  excursions 
afforded  into  the  life  of  the  common  people. 
He  maintained  that  New  York  was  the  most 


142  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

picturesque  city  in  the  world,  "  thanks,"  he 
said,  "  to  the  presence  of  your  people,  the  Jews." 
Sometimes  we  would  visit  the  picture  galleries, 
where  my  friend  initiated  me  into  the  enjoy 
ment  of  a  new  art.  Musician-like,  I  had  there 
tofore  cared  little  and  understood  nothing  about 
painting.  Merivale  was  fond  of  quoting  the 
German  dictum,  "  Das  Sehen  mussgelernt  sein  !  " 
— it  was  all  the  German  he  knew — and  now  he 
taught  me  to  see. 

I  was  in  precisely  the  mood  to  appreciate 
this  altered  mode  of  existence  to  the  utmost. 
At  Merivale's  touch  the  pain  that  for  two  years 
had  been  as  a  lump  in  my  throat  was  dissolved 
and  diffused,  tinging  my  life  with  melancholy 
instead  of  consuming  it  with  sullen,  unremitting 
fever. 

"The  scowl,"  declared  my  friend,  "the 
scowl  is  merging  into  a  smile  of  sadness.  Tis 
a  hopeful  sign.  By  and  by  your  cure  will  be 
established.  You  have  had  a  cancer,  as  it  were. 
We  have  succeeded  in  scattering  the  virus 
through  the  system.  Now  we  will  proceed  to 
its  total  eradication.  I  don't  know  whether 
that  is  the  course  medical  men  in  general 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  143 

pursue  :  but  it  sounds  plausible,  and  I'm  sure 
it's  the  proper  one  for  the  present  instance. 
Of  course  I  don't  expect  you  ever  to  rejoice  in 
that  unalloyed  buoyancy  of  spirits  which  distin 
guishes  your  servant :  but  you  will  become 
cheerful  and  contented ;  and  the  Italians  say, 
'  Whoso  is  contented  is  happy.'  " 

It  seemed  as  if  his  predictions  were  being  veri 
fied.  Though  at  no  time  did  I  cease  to  think  of 
Veronika,  though  at  no  time  did  I  become 
insensible  of  the  loss  I  had  sustained,  still 
the  fact  was  that  I  commenced  to  take  an 
interest  in  what  went  on  around  me,  com 
menced  in  a  certain  sense  to  extract  pleasure 
from  my  circumstances. 

"  You  have  been  a  dreadful  egotist,"  said 
Merivale,  "  profoundly  self-absorbed.  It  was 
inevitable  that  you  should  be  for  a  while. 
But  there  is  no  excuse  for  you  to  be  so 
any  longer.  A  purely  selfish  sorrow  is  as 
much  a  self-indulgence  as  a  purely  selfish 
joy,  and  has  as  little  dignity.  It  dwarfs, 
enervates,  demoralizes  the  soul :  a  platitude 
which  you  would  do  well  to  memorize." 

At   first   I   had   hesitated  to   try  a  second 


144  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

experiment  with  the  violin  :  yet  the  very  motive 
of  my  hesitancy — namely,  the  recollection  of 
how  my  feelings  had  got  the  best  of  me  the 
last  time — acted  also  as  a  temptation.  One 
day  while  Merivale  was  absent  I  tuned  his 
Stradivari,  and  with  much  the  sensation  of  a 
fledgling  launched  upon  a  perilous  and  uncer 
tain  flight,  let  my  right  arm  have  its  way.  The 
result  was  encouraging.  I  determined  that 
henceforward  I  should  practice  regularly.  The 
music  brought  me  near  to  Veronika,  and 
now  I  could  endure  this  nearness  without 
quailing.  Though  it  was  by  no  means  destitute 
of  pain,  somehow  the  very  pain  was  a  luxury. 
Henceforth  not  a  day  passed  without  my 
dedicating  several  hours  to  the  violin.  Meri 
vale,  as  he  had  put  it,  "  scraped  a  little."  He 
had  put  it  too  modestly.  He  had  already 
learned  to  read,  with  remarkable  facility  ;  and 
instruction  profited  him  to  such  a  degree  that 
he  was  soon  able  to  sustain  a  very  accurate 
second.  So  when  we  were  at  loss  for  another 
occupation  we  would  while  the  hours  away  with 
Schubert's  songs. 

We  spent  most  of  our  evenings  in-doors,  chat- 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  145 

ting  at  the  fireside.  Sometimes  Merivale  would 
take  himself  off  to  pay  a  visit  in  the  town. 
Then  I  would  invariably  fall  to  marveling  at 
the  change  he  had  wrought  in  my  life.  "  It  is 
certain,"  I  said,  "  that  Destiny  holds  some  hap 
piness  still  in  store  for  you."  I  was  mistaken. 
Destiny  was  simply  granting  me  a  momentary 
respite — drawing  off,  preparatory  to  delivering 
her  final  culminating  blow. 

One  night  Merivale  came  home  late.  I,  in 
deed,  had  already  gone  to  bed.  He  roused  me 
by  lighting  the  gas  and  crying,  "  Wake  up, 
wake  up  ;  I  have  something  of  the  utmost  im 
portance  to  communicate." 

"  Is  the  house  afire  ?  "  I  demanded,  startled. 

"  No  ;  the  house  is  all  right.  But  rub  your 
eyes  and  open  your  ears.  Do  you  know  Dr. 
Rodolph?" 

"  The  musical  director  ?  " 

"  The  same." 

"  Of  course  I  know  him  by  reputation.  Do 
you  mean  personally  ?  Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Because — but  that's  the  point.  First  you 
must  hear  my  story.  It's  the  greatest  stroke 
of  luck  that  mortal  ever  had." 


146  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"  Well,  go  ahead." 

"  I'm  going  ahead  as  rapidly  as  I  can  ;  only 
I'm  so  excited  I  hardly  know  where  to  begin. 
I've  actually  run  on  foot  all  the  way  home.  I 
couldn't  wait  for  the  horse-car,  I  was  in  such  a 
hurry  to  announce  your  good  fortune.  I'm 
rather  out  of  breath." 

"  Take  your  time,  then.  I  possess  my  soul 
in  patience." 

"  Well,  here's  the  amount  of  it. — You  see, 
Dr.  Rodolph  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  this  even 
ing  I  thought  I  would  call  upon  him.  The 
thought  proved  to  be  a  happy  one,  a  veritable 
inspiration.  I  arrived  just  in  the  nick  of  time. 
We  hadn't  more  than  seated  ourselves  in  the 
drawing-room  when  the  door-bell  rang.  Martha, 
the  doctor's  daughter,  went  to  answer  it ;  and 
presently  back  she  came  bearing  a  note  for  her 
father.  The  doctor  took  it  and  asked  permis 
sion  to  read  it  and  broke  it  open.  You  know 
what  a  nervous  little  man  he  is.  Well,  the 
next  moment  he  began  to  grow  red,  and  his 
nostrils  dilated,  and  his  eyes  flashed  fire,  and 
then  he  crumpled  up  the  paper  and  stamped  his 
foot  and  uttered  a  tremendous  imprecation." 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  147 

"  Oh,  pray,  don't  stop,"  I  said,  as  he  paused 
for  breath.  "  Your  narrative  becomes  thrilling." 

"  Well,  sir,"  resumed  Merivale,  "  I  got  quite 
alarmed.  I  rushed  up  to  the  doctor's  side  and 
'  For  mercy's  sake,  what's  the  matter — no  bad 
news,  1  hope,"  said  I.  '  Bad  news  ? '  says  he, 
'  I  should  think  it  was  bad  news,'  giving  his 
mane  a  toss.  '  To-day  is  Friday,  isn't  it  ? 
To-day  we  had  our  public  rehearsal.  To-morrow 
night  we  have  our  concert.  Good.  Well,  now 
at  the  eleventh  hour  what  happens  ?  Why,  the 
soloist  sends  word  that  "  a  sudden  indisposition 
will  make  it  impossible  for  him  to  keep  his  en 
gagement."  Ugh !  I  hope  it  is  an  apoplexy,  but 
I'm  afraid  it's  nothing  more  nor  less  than  rum. 
The  advertisements  are  all  in  the  papers ;  the 
programme  is  arranged  on  the  assumption  that 
he  is  to  play ;  and  now,  late  as  it  is,  I  shall  have 
to  start  out  in  search  of  a  substitute.'  '  Hold 
on  a  minute,  doctor,'  said  I.  'What  instrument 
did  your  soloist  intend  to  play  ?  '  '  The  violin,' 
says  the  doctor.  'Hurrah!'  I  rejoined,  'then 
you  need  seek  no  further ! '  '  What  do  you 
mean?'  asked  he.  'This,'  said  I,  'that  I  will 
supply  a  substitute  who  can  take  the  wind  all  out 


148  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

of  your  delinquent's  sails.'  The  doctor  raised 
his  eyebrows.  '  Nonsense,'  he  said.  '  It  isn't 
nonsense/  I  replied,  and  thereupon  I  told  him 
about  you — that  is  about  your  wonderful  skill 
as  a  fiddler.  Well,  of  course  the  doctor  was 
disinclined  to  believe  in  you  ;  said  that  excel 
lence  was  not  enough  ;  the  public  would  tolerate 
mere  excellence  in  a  singer  or  in  a  pianist,  but 
when  it  came  to  violin  solos,  the  public  de 
manded  something  superlative  or  nothing  at 
all ;  it  wasn't  possible  that  you  could  be  up  to 
the  mark,  because  he  had  never  heard  of  you. 
Of  course,  if  I  said  so,  he  had  no  doubt  that 
you  were  a  good  musician,  but  he  had  twenty 
good  musicians  in  his  orchestra.  A  good 
musician  wasn't  enough. — But  I  didn't  mean  to 
be  turned  aside  by  this  sort  of  obstacle.  I  in 
sisted.  I  said  I  had  heard  Joachim  and  all  the 
best  players  on  the  other  side,  and  that  you 
were  able  to  give  them  lessons.  The  doctor 
pooh-poohed  me.  'Don't,'  he  said,  'don't 
damage  your  friend's  chances  by  exaggeration. 
I  should  be  only  too  much  pleased  if  he  should 
turn  out  to  be  a  competent  man  ;  but  you  add 
to  my  incredulity  when  you  measure  him  with 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  149 

a  giant  like  Joachim.  At  any  rate,  I  am  willing 
to  give  him  a  trial.  Bring  him  here  to-morrow 
morning.'  So  to-morrow  morning,  bright  and 
early,  we  will  call  upon  the  doctor,  and — and 
your  fortune's  made  !  " 

It  required  no  little  strength  of  mind  to 
answer  Merivale  as  I  now  had  to. 

"  You're  awfully  kind,  old  boy,"  I  said.  "  It's 
extremely  hard  to  be  obliged  to  say  no.  But 
really,  you  don't  understand  the  level  of  violin 
playing  which  a  soloist  must  come  up  to.  And 
you  don't  understand  either  what  a  mediocre 
executant  I  am.  My  technique  is  such  that  I 
could  barely  pass  muster  among  the  second 
violinists  in  Doctor  Rodolph's  orchestra.  It 
would  be  the  height  of  effrontery  for  me  to 
present  myself  before  him  as  a  would-be 
soloist." 

"  That  is  a  matter  for  the  doctor,  and  not  for 
you,  to  decide.  No  man  can  correctly  estimate 
his  own  powers  :  you  not  more  than  the  rest. 
All  I  say  is,  come  with  me  to  call  upon  him 
to-morrow  morning  and  leave  the  consequences 
to  his  judgment." 

"  You  would  not  submit  me  to  the  humilia- 


150  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

tion  of  such  a  trial.  After  the  extravagances 
you  have  uttered  concerning  me,  to  show 
myself  in  my  own  humble  colors — the  drop 
would  be  too  great.  But  I  may  as  well  be 
entirely  candid.  There  are  other  reasons,  final 
ones.  I  may  as  well  say  right  out  that  it  will 
never  be  possible  for  me  to  play  my  violin  any 
where  except  here,  between  you  and  me:  you 
know  why." 

The  light  faded  from  Merivale's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,"  he  pleaded.  "  After  the 
trouble  I've  taken,  and  after  the  promise  I've 
made,  and  after  the  pleasure  I've  had  in  pictur 
ing  your  delight,  don't  say  you  won't  even  go 
to  see  the  Doctor  and  give  him  a  specimen. 
Don't  disappoint  a  fellow  like  that." 

I  stuck  out  obdurately.  Merivale  shifted 
from  the  attitude  of  one  who  begs  a  favor  to 
that  of  one  who  imposes  a  duty. 

"  Come,"  he  cried,  "  it  is  simply  the  old 
egotism  reasserting  itself.  You  won't  play, 
forsooth,  because  it  doesn't  suit  your  humor. 
That,  I  say,  is  egotism  of  the  worst  sort.  You 
— positively,  you  make  me  ashamed  for  you.  It 
is  the  part  of  a  man  to  perform  his  task  man- 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  151 

fully.  What  right  have  you,  I'd  like  to  know, 
what  right  have  you  to  hide  your  light  under  a 
bushel,  more  than  another?  Simply  because 
the  practice  of  your  art  entails  pain  upon  you, 
are  you  justified  in  resting  idle  ?  Why,  all 
great  work  entails  pain  upon  the  worker. 
Raphael  never  would  have  painted  his  pictures, 
Dante  never  would  have  written  his  Inferno, 
women  would  never  bring  children  into  the 
world,  if  the  dread  of  pain  were  sufficient  to 
subdue  courage  and  the  sense  of  obligation.  It 
is  the  pain  which  makes  the  endeavor  heroic.  I 
have  all  due  respect  for  your  feelings,  Lexow  ; 
but  I  respect  them  only  in  so  far  as  I  believe 
that  you  are  able  to  master  them.  When  I  see 
them  get  the  upper  hand  and  sap  your  man 
hood,  then  I  counsel  you  to  a  serious  bat 
tle  with  them.  The  excuse  you  offer  for  not 
wishing  to  play  to-morrow  night  is  a  puny 
excuse.  I  will  have  none  of  it.  To-morrow 
morning  you  will  go  with  me  to  Doctor 
Rodolph's  :  and  if  after  this  homily  you  persist 
in  your  refusal — well,  you'll  know  my  opinion 
of  you." 

Merivale  would  not  listen  to  my  protests.  He 


152  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

got  into  bed  and  said,  "  Good-night.  Go  to 
sleep.  No  use  for  you  to  talk.  I'm  deaf.  I'm 
implacable  also  ;  and  to-morrow  morning  I  shall 
lead  you  to  the  slaughter.  Prepare  to  trot 
along  becomingly  at  my  side,  lambkin.  Good 
night." 

My  efforts  to  beg  off  next  morning  were 
ineffectual. 

"  If  you  desire  to  forfeit  my  respect 
entirely,"  he  warned  me,  "  persist  in  this  sort 
of  thing." 

I  permitted  myself  to  be  dragged  by  the 
arm  through  the  streets  to  Doctor  Rodolph's 
house. 

The  Doctor  accorded  me  a  skeptical  wel 
come.  Producing  a  composition  quite  unfa 
miliar  to  me,  he  bade  me  read  it  at  sight.  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  do  my  best.  The  doctor 
sat  in  an  easy  chair  during  the  first  dozen  bars. 
Then  he  began  to  move  nervously  about  the 
room.  Then,  before  I  had  half  finished,  he 
cried  out,  "Stop — enough,  enough." 

Disconcerted,  I  brought  my  bow  to  a  stand 
still  and  exchanged  a  forlorn  glance  with  Meri- 
vale. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  153 

The  doctor  approached  and  looked  me 
quizzically  over  from  head  to  foot.  "  Where 
did  you  study  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  In  New  York,"  I  answered. 

"  Have  you  ever  played  in  public?" 

"  Not  at  any  large  affairs." 

"Do  you  teach?" 

"  I  used  to." 

"  What — what  did  you  say  your  name  was?  " 

"Lexow." 

"  Hum,  it  is  odd  I  haven't  heard  of  you. 
Have  you  been  in  New  York  long?" 

"All  my  life." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  you  said  you  studied  here.  Who 
were  your  masters  ?  " 

I  named  them. 

The  doctor's  face  had  been  inscrutable. 

Merivale  and  I  had  sat  on  pins  during  the 
inquisition.  Now  the  doctor's  face  lighted  up 
with  a  genial  smile. 

"  You  will  do,  Mr.  Lexow,"  he  said.  "  I 
don't  know  whom  to  thank  the  more,  you  or 
Mr.  Merivale.  You  have  relieved  me  in  a  very 
trying  emergency.  Your  playing  is  fine,  though 
perhaps  a  trifle  too  independent,  a  trifle  too 


154  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

individual,  and  the  least  tone  too  florid.  It  is 
odd,  most  odd  that  I  should  never  have  heard 
of  you  ;  but  we  shall  all  hear  of  you  in  the 
future." 

We  agreed  upon  the  selections  for  the  even 
ing.  I  ran  them  through  in  the  doctor's 
presence  and  listened  to  his  suggestions.  Then 
we  bade  him  good-by. 

That  day  was  a  trying  one.  It  would  be 
bootless  to  catalogue  the  conflicting  thoughts 
and  emotions  that  preyed  upon  me.  I  prac 
ticed  my  pieces  thoroughly.  Merivale  busied 
himself  procuring  what  he  styled  a  "  rig." 
The  rig  consisted  of  an  evening  suit  and  its 
accessories.  He  rented  one  at  a  costumer's 
on  Union  square.  As  the  day  drew  to  a  close, 
I  worried  more  and  more.  "  Brace  up,"  cried 
Merivale.  "  Where's  your  stamina?  And  here, 
swallow  a  glass  of  brandy." 

We  waited  in  the  ante-room  till  it  was  my 
turn  to  go  upon  the  platform. 

I  was  conscious  of  a  glow  of  light  and  a  sea 
of  faces  and  a  mortal  stage-fright,  and  of  little 
else,  when  finally  I  had  taken  my  position. 
The  orchestra  played  the  preliminary  bars.  I 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  155 

had  to  begin.  I  got  through  the  first  phrase 
and  the  second.  The  voice  of  my  instrument 
reassured  me.  "  After  all  you  will  not  make  a 
dead  failure,"  I  thought,  and  ventured  to  lift 
my  eyes.  Not  two  yards  distant  from  me,  to 
my  right,  among  the  first  violins,  sat  Mr. 
Tikulski.  His  gaze  was  riveted  upon  my 
face. 

I  had  anticipated  about  every  catastrophe 
that  could  possibly  befall,  but  strangely  enough 
I  had  not  anticipated  this.  And  it  was  so  sud 
den,  and  the  emotions  it  occasioned  were  so 
powerful,  and  I  was  so  nervous  and  unstrung — 
well,  the  floor  gave  a  lurch,  like  the  deck  of  a 
vessel  in  a  storm  ;  the  lights  dashed  backward 
and  forward  before  my  sight ;  a  deathly  sick 
ness  overspread  my  senses  ;  the  accompaniment 
of  the  orchestra  became  harsh  and  incoherent ; 
my  violin  dropped  with  a  crash  upon  the 
boards;  and  the  next  thing  I  was  aware  of,  I 
lay  at  full  length  on  a  sofa  in  the  retiring-room, 
and  Merivale  was  holding  a  smelling-bottle  to 
my  nostrils.  I  could  hear  the  orchestra  beyond 
the  partition  industriously  winding  off  the 
Tannhauser  march. 


IS6  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"  How  do  you  feel  ?  "  asked  Merivale,  as  I 
opened  my  eyes. 

"  I  feel  as  though  I  should  like  to  annihilate 
myself,"  I  answered,  as  memory  cleared  up.  "I 
have  permanently  disgraced  us  both." 

"  But  what  was  the  trouble  ?  You  were 
doing  nobly,  splendidly,  when  all  of  a  sudden 
you  collapsed  like  that,"  clapping  his  hands. 
"  The  doctor  is  furious,  says  it  was  all  my  fault." 

"  No,  it  wasn't  your  fault,"  I  hastened  to  put 
in.  "  I  should  have  pulled  through  after  a 
fashion,  only  unluckily  I  caught  sight  of 
Tikulski — her  uncle,  you  know — in  the  orches 
tra  ;  and,  well,  I — I  suppose — well,  you  see  it 
was  so  unexpected  that  it  rather  undid  me." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  understand,"  said  he. 

We  kept  silence  all  the  way  home  in  the 
carriage. 

Next  morning,  as  I  entered  the  sitting-room, 
Merivale  tried  to  hide  a  newspaper  under  his 
coat. 

"Oh,  don't  bother  to  do  that,"  I  said.  "  Of 
course  it  is  all  in  print  ?  " 

Possessing  myself  of  the  newspaper,  I  had 
the  satisfaction  of  reading  a  sensational  account 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  157 

of  my  fiasco.  But  what  I  had  most  dreaded 
from  the  quarter  of  the  newspapers  had  not 
come  to  pass.  None  of  them  identified  me  as 
the  Ernest  Neuman  who,  rather  more  than  two 
years  since,  had  been  tried  for  murder. 


MY  encounter  with  Tikulski  was  bound  to 
have  consequences,  practical  as  well 
as  moral.  All  day  Sunday  a  legion  of  blue 
devils  were  my  comrades.  Late  Monday 
afternoon  I  received  by  the  post  a  letter  and  a 
package,  each  addressed  to  "  E.  Lexow,  in  care 
of  D.  Merivale,  Esq."  The  penmanship  was 
the  same  on  both — a  stiff  European  hand  which 
I  could  not  recognize.  I  began  with  the  letter. 
It  read  thus  : — 
"Mr.  E.  Lexow, 
"  Dear  Sir : 

I  should  have  forwarded  this  to  you 
before,  but  not  apprised  of  the  alteration  of 
your  name,  I  was  unable  to  discover  your 
address.  I  dispatch  this  to  the  address  indi 
cated  by  Dr.  Rodolph,  who  informs  me  that 
you  are  to  be  reached  through  D.  Merivale, 
Esquire,  as  he  is  not  advised  of  your  private 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  159 

residence.  I  found  it  in  a  pawn-broking  estab 
lishment  (No.  -  -  street,  kept  by  one  M. 
Arkush)  now  more  than  a  year,  and  purchased 
it  with  the  intention  of  restoring  it  to  you, 
because  I  suppose  that  it  must  be  of  some 
value  to  you  as  a  family  memento,  and  that  you 
would  not  have  disposed  of  it  except  needing 
money.  Hoping  that  this  letter  may  find  you 
in  the  enjoyment  of  good  health,  I  am 
"  Respectfully  yours, 

"B:  TIKULSKI." 

What  could  Tikulski's  letter  mean  ?  What 
could  "  it  "  be?  I  puzzled  over  these  questions 
for  a  long  while  before  it  occurred  to  me  to 
unseal  the  package. 

There  was  an  outer  wrapper  of  stout  brown 
paper.  Beneath  this,  an  inner  wrapper  of  tis 
sue  paper.  Both  removed,  I  beheld  an  oval 
case  of  red  leather,  considerably  the  worse  for 
wear.  What  did  it  contain  ?  I  pressed  the 
clasp  and  raised  the  lid.  It  contained  a  minia 
ture  painted  on  ivory,  the  likeness  of  a  man. 
The  faded  colors  and  the  old-fashioned  collar 
and  cravat  showed  that  it  dated  from  some 
years  back.  But  of  whom  ^was  it  a  picture  ? 


160  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

Why  had  Tikulski  posted  it  to  me  ?  And  what 
did  he  mean  by  supposing  that  I  should  value 
it  as  a  family  memento  and  that  I  would  not 
have  parted  with  it — I,  who  had  never  owned 
it,— "except  needing  money?"  I  was  thor 
oughly  mystified. 

"Merivale,"  I  said,  "can  you  make  any  thing 
out  of  this  ?  " 

I  tossed  him  the  letter  arid  the  portrait. 

Presently  he  muttered,  "  Pretty  good,  by 
Jove." 

"Well?"  I  questioned. 

"Well,  what?"  he  returned. 

"  Well,  What  do  you  make  of  it  ?  What  dots 
it  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  the  likeness  is  striking,  what 
else?  Your  father,  eh?  " 

"  My  father?    I  confess  I  am  in  the  dark." 

"  And  you  have  the  faculty  of  dragging  me  in 
after  you.  What  are  you  trying  to  get  at  ?  " 

"  I  am  trying  to  get  at  Mr.  Tikulski's  idea. 
Why  should  he  send  me  that  miniature  ?  Whom 
does  it  represent?  " 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  haven't 
recognized  it?" 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  161 

"  Most  certainly  I  do." 

"  Man  alive,  look  in  the  glass. — Here." 

Merivale  held  up  the  miniature  in  one  hand 
and  a  pocket-mirror  in  the  other.  As  closely 
as  it  is  possible  for  one  human  countenance  to 
resemble  another,  the  face  of  the  picture 
resembled  my  reflection  in  the  glass. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  ?  "  demanded  Merivale. — 
"  Why,  what  ails  you  ?  "  he  continued  presently, 
as  I  did  not  answer.  "You  look  as  if  you  had 
seen  a  ghost.  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  It  has  caused  me  quite  a  turn,"  I  replied. 
"  It  must  indeed  be  a  portrait  of  my  father. 
But  do  you  know — wait — let  me  tell  you  some 
thing." 

What  I  told  Merivale  I  shall  have  also  to  tell 
the  reader. 

I  could    remember   neither  of  my   parents. 
As  a  child,  I  had  lived  in  a  dark  old  house  with 
a  good  old   rabbi  and  his  wife — Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Hirsch.     I  had  never  stopped  to  ask  whether 
or  not  they  were  my  father  and  mother  until 
I  was  eleven  or  twelve  years  of  age.     Then, 
the  question  having  been  suggested  by  a  school- 

I 1 


l6»  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

mate,  I  had  said,  "  Dr.  Lesser" — Lesser  being 
the  rabbi's  given  name — "  are  you  my  father?" 
To  which  the  doctor,  beaming  at  me  over  the 
rim  of  his  spectacles,  had  responded,  "  No,  my 
child  :  you  are  an  orphan." — "  An  orphan  ? 
That  means  ?  "  I  pursued.  "  That  your  papa 
and  mamma  are  dead,"  said  he. — "  Have  they 
been  dead  long  ?  "  I  asked  indifferently.  "  Ever 
since  you  were  the  tiniest  little  tot,"  he  replied. 
And  thereupon,  as  the  subject  did  not  prove 
especially  interesting,  I  had  let  it  drop. 

Time  went  on.  I  was  perfectly  contented. 
The  doctor  and  his  wife  were  kindness  personi 
fied.  The  present  occupied  me  so  pleasantly 
that  I  forgot  to  be  curious  about  the  past.  But 
at  length,  when  I  was  fifteen,  the  question  of 
my  parentage  was  again  brought  to  my  mind — 
this  time  by  a  lad  with  whom  I  had  had  a  quar 
rel  and  who  as  a  parting  thrust  had  inquired 
significantly  whether  I  knew  the  definition  of  the 
Hebrew  noun  Mamzer.  Highly  incensed,  I  ran 
home  and  burst  into  the  doctor's  study.  "  Doc 
tor,"  I  demanded,  without  ceremony,  "  am  I  a 
Mamzer  f  " — "  What  a  notion  !  Of  course  you 
are  not,"  replied  the  rabbi. — "  Then,"  I  con- 


AS  IT  W AS  WRITTEN.  1 63 

tinued,  "what  ami?  Tell  me  all  about  my 
father  and  mother." 

The  doctor  said  there  was  nothing  to  tell 
except  that  my  mother  had  died  when  I  was  less 
than  two  years  old,  and  my  father  not  a  great 
while  after  her.  They  had  been  members  of 
his  (the  doctor's)  congregation ;  and  rather 
than  see  me  sent  to  an  orphan  asylum,  he  and 
his  wife  had  taken  me  to  live  with  them. — "  But 
what  sort  of  people  were  they,  my  parents  ?  " 
I  insisted.  "  Give  me  some  particulars  about 
them." — "  They  were  very  respectable,  and  by 
their  neighbors  generally  esteemed  well  off. 
Your  father  had  been  a  merchant ;  but  for  the 
last  year  his  health  was  such  as  to  confine  him 
to  his  bedroom.  It  was  quite  a  surprise  to 
every  body  to  find  on  his  death  that  very  little 
property  was  left.  That  little  was  gobbled  up 
by  his  creditors.  So  that  you  have  no  legacy  to 

expect  except '    "  Except  ?  "  I  queried  as 

the  doctor  hesitated.  "There  is  no  exception. 
You  have  no  legacy  to  expect  at  all." — "  But," 
I  resumed,  "  had  my  parents  no  relations  ?  Have 
I  no  uncles  or  aunts  ?  Am  I  altogether  with 
out  kindred  ?  " — "  So  far  as  I  know,  you  arc. 


164  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

Your  father  came  originally  from  Breslau.  It 
is  possible  that  he  had  relatives  there  ;  but  he 
had' none  in  this  country — at  least  I  never  heard 
him  speak  of  any.  He  was  a  good  man,  a  pious 
man.  It  was  sad  that  he  should  die  so  young, 
but  it  was  the  will  of  Adonai" — "  And  my 
mother,  had  she  no  brother  or  sister?" — 
"  About  your  mother  I  can  tell  you  very  little. 
She  came  from  Savannah.  Whether  she  has 
connections  there  still,  I  can  not  say." — "  Doc 
tor,"  I  asked,  after  a  moment's  silence,  "  what 
did  you  mean  by  that  '  except '  you  used  a 
while  ago,  speaking  of  legacies  ?  "  "I  meant 
nothing.  I  was  thinking  of  a  few  family  relics, 
papers  and  what-not,  which  you  are  to  receive 
when  you  become  of  age." — "Why  not  till 
then  ?  " — "  No  reason,  save  that  such  was  your 
father's  wish,  expressed  on  his  death-bed.  He 
said,  '  Don't  let  my  son  have  these  until  he  is 
grown  to  be  a  man.'  '  — "  Can  you  tell  me  defi 
nitely  what  they  are  ?  " — "  I  can  not.  I  have 
never  seen  them.  They  are  locked  up  in  a  box  ; 
and  the  box  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  open."- 
"  Doctor,  what  was  my  mother's  maiden- 
name  ? "  "  Bertha,  Bertha  Lexow."— "  Did 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  165 

you  marry  her  and  my  father?"  "Oh,  no; 
they  were  married  in  the  South  at  Savannah. 
I  think  they  had  been  married  about  five  years 
when  your  father  died." — I  went  on  quizzing 
the  doctor  until  he  declined  to  answer  another 
question.  "  Go  away,  gad-fly,"  he  cried.  "You 
are  worse  than  the  inquisition." 

In  my  eighteenth  year  the  doctor  died  sud 
denly,  having  survived  his  wife  by  a  six-month 
only.  He  was  stricken  down  by  paralysis  while 
intoning  the  Kadesh  song  in  the  synagogue.  In 
him  I  lost  my  only  friend.  I  had  loved  him 
precisely  as  though  he  had  been  my  father.  His 
death  was  an  immense  affliction.  It  took  me  a 
long  while  to  gather  my  wits  together  and 
realize  my  position. 

A  week  or  two  after  the  funeral  a  man  came 
to  me  and  said,  "  I  represent  the  Public  Ad 
ministrator,  charged  with  settling  up  Dr. 
Hirsch's  concerns.  He  leaves  nothing  except 
household  furniture  and  a  few  dollars  in  bank — 
all  of  which  goes  to  his  next-of-kin  in  Germany. 
You  will  have  to  find  other  quarters.  These 
are  to  be  vacated  and  the  goods  sold  at  auction 
in  a  few  days." — "  Ah,"  I  said,  "if  you  are  his 


1 66  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

administrator,  that  reminds  me.  I  beg  that 
you  will  deliver  over  the  things  the  doctor  had 
belonging  to  me — a  box  containing  papers." 
"  Identify  your  property  and  prove  your  title," 
he  replied. 

Strangers  came  and  went  in  and  out  of  the 
house  for  several  days.  But  in  the  inventory 
which  they  prepared  no  such  box  as  the  doctor 
had  described  was  mentioned.  Furthermore,  a 
thorough  search  failed  to  bring  it  to  light.  The 
auction  was  held.  The  last  fork  was  knocked 
down  to  the  highest  bidder.  And  I  had  to  go 
about  my  business  with  the  unpleasant  convic 
tion  that  owing  to  some  slip-up  somewhere  my 
inheritance  had  either  been  lost  or  stolen. 
Gradually  I  reconciled  myself  to  this  idea,  con 
cluding  that  what  I  already  knew  about  my 
parents  was  the  most  I  ever  should  know ;  and 
thus  matters  had  remained  ever  since. 

"  But  now,"  I  added,  my  recital  wound  up, 
"  now  perhaps  in  this  miniature  I  have  a  clew. 
It  must  be  a  portrait  of  my  father :  and  very 
likely  it  was  part  of  the  contents  of  that  box. 
I  suppose,  if  I  were  clever,  I  should  see  a  way 
of  following  it  up." 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  167 

"  I  am  consoled,"  said  Merivale,  drawing  a. 
deep  breath. 

"  Consoled  ?  "  I  queried. 

"  Yes,  consoled  for  my  obstinacy  in  making 
you  play  at  the  concert.  You  see,  it  was  an 
inspiration  after  all.  If  you  had  not  chanced 
upon  Tikulski — what  a  blood-curdling  name  ! 
fit  for  a  tragedy  villain — if  you  hadn't  chanced 
upon  him  as  you  did,  why  you  never  would 
have  received  the  picture,  and  so  the  mystery 
which  envelops  my  hero's  antecedents  would 
never  have  been  dispelled.  Now  we  must  go 
to  work  in  a  systematic  way." 

"  Exactly ;  but  how  begin  ?  " 

"  Let  me  see  Tikulski's  letter  again." — After 
he  had  read  the  letter,  "  Begin,"  he  said,  "  by 
paying  a  visit  to  the  pawn-shop  where  he  got 
it.  Luckily  he  had  the  presence  of  mind  to 
mention  its  whereabouts." 

"  Good,"  I  assented.  "  But  will  you  go  with 
me?" 

"  Do  you  imagine  I  would  allow  you  to  go 
alone,  you  unfledged  gosling  ?  I  shall  not  only 
go  with  you,  but  by  your  permission  I  shall 
manage  the  whole  transaction.  I  fancy  I  sur 
pass  you  in  respect  of  savoir  faire" 


168  AS  IT  WAS   WRITTEN. 

"  It  is  now  past  four.  Shall  we  start  at 
once  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

"  Don't  be  too  hopeful,"  he  warned  me,  as 
we  approached  the  pawnbroker's  door.  "  Most 
likely  we  shall  run  against  a  dead  wall." 

The  shop  was  empty.  A  bell  tinkled  as  we 
opened  the  door.  In  response,  a  young  fellow 
in  his  shirt-sleeves  emerged  from  a  dark  back 
room. 

"  Is  Mr.  Arkush  in  ?  "  demanded  Merivale, 
with  an  air  of  friendliness. 

"  Do  you  want  to  see  him  personally  ?"  re 
turned  the  young  man,  not  over  politely. 

"  You  have  fathomed  my  purpose,"  said 
Merivale  with  mock  gravity. 

"What  about?" 

Merivale  drew  near  to  the  young  -man  and 
shielding  his  mouth  with  his  hand  whispered, 
"  Business,"  accompanying  his  utterance  with 
a  knowing  glance. 

"  Well,  you  can  see  me  about  business,"  re 
joined  his  interlocutor,  surlily. 

"  Impossible.  Here,  take  my  card  to  Mr. 
Arkush  and  say  I  am  pressed." 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  169 

"  Mr.  Arkush  can't  see  nobody.     He's  sick." 

"Sick?  Ah,  indeed?"  cried  Merivale.  "Has 
he  been  sick  long?  I  hope  it  is  nothing  se 
rious.  Pray  tell  me  what  the  trouble  is?" 

The  young  man  looked  surprised.  "  Oh,  it's 
only  rheumatism,"  he  said.  "  You  ain't  a  friend 
of  his,  are  you?/' 

"  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  of  course  I  am.  By 
the  very  nature  of  his  profession  Mr.  Arkush  is 
the  friend  of  every  body  ;  and  I  am  the  friend 
of  every  friend  of  mine.  Consequently — but 
the  deduction  is  too  obvious.  Here,  take  him 
my  card  and  say  that  if  he  is  not  too  ill  I  shall 
hope  to  be  admitted." 

"Well,  perhaps  I'd  better,"  said  the  young 
man,  reflectively. — "  Becky,"  he  called,  raising 
his  voice. 

Becky  appeared. 

"  Good-afternoon,  Miss  Rebecca,"  said  Meri 
vale,  lifting  his  hat. 

"  Mind  the  shop,"  said  the  young  man  to 
Becky,  and  thereat  vanished. 

"  Come  this  way,"  he  said  to  us,  presently 
returning. 

He  conducted    us  into  the  cavernous  back 


17®  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

room.  The  atmosphere  was  heavy  with  the 
scent  of  stale  cookery.  The  walls  were  lined 
with  shelves,  bearing  mysterious  parcels  done 
up  in  paper  winding-sheets.  Under  a  grimy 
window  at  the  further  end  an  old  man  sat  in  an 
easy  chair,  a  patch-work  quilt  infolding  his  legs. 
Bald,  beardless,  with  sharply  accentuated  feat 
ures  and  a  yellow  skin,  he  looked  like  a  Midas 
whose  magic  was  beginning  to  operate  upon 
himself. 

"  Dear  me ! "  cried  Merivale,  advancing 
toward  him.  "  I'm  shocked  to  find  you  suffer 
ing  like  this,  Mr.  Arkush.  Do  the  legs  give 
you  much  pain  ?  You  must  try  petroleum  lini 
ment.  I'll  send  you  a  bottle.  They  say  it's 
the  best  remedy  in  the  world. — But  tell  me, 
how  are  you  getting  on  ?  Do  you  notice  any 
improvement?" 

The  old  man's  face  wore  a  puzzled  expres 
sion.  "  What  was  the  business  you  wanted  to 
see  me  about  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Oh,  never  mind  about  business  till  you  have 
quieted  my  anxiety  regarding  your  health. 
Besides,  are  you  sure  you  will  be  able  to 
attend  ?  " 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  171 

The  mask  of  Midas  betrayed  a  tendency  to 
smile.  "  Come,  time  is  money ;  hurry  up," 
said  its  owner.  He  had  a  strong  Jewish 
accent,  thus :  "  Dime  iss  money." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Merivale,  "if  you  don't 
think  it  will  disturb  you,  I'll  come  to  the  point. 
But  let  me  disarm  beforehand  any  suspicion 
which  the  nature  of  my  errand  may  be  calcu 
lated  to  inspire.  I  am  not  a  detective.  I  am  not 
on  the  track  of  stolen  goods.  I  am  simply  a 
private  individual  desirous  of  gaining  certain 
information  for  certain  strictly  legitimate  ends. 
So  you  need  have  no  fear  of  compromising 
yourself  by  speaking  with  entire  unreserve. 
Shall  I  proceed?  " 

"  My  Gott,  what  are  you  talking  about  ? 
Don't  make  foolishness  any  longer/'  exclaimed 
Mr.  Arkush  with  some  degree  of  vivacity. 

"Mr.  Arkush,"  said  Merivale  in  his  most 
solemn  tones,  "do  you  remember  this?" 
extracting  the  miniature  from  his  pocket  and 
handing  it  to  the  pawnbroker. 

The  latter  donned  a  pair  of  spectacles  and 
holding  the  picture  off  at  arm's  length,  scrutin 
ized  it  in  silence. 


172  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"Yes,  I  remember  it,"  he  replied  finally,  "I 
sold  it  to  a  gentleman  some  time  ago.  What 
of  it?" 

"  You  did.  You  sold  it  about  a  year  ago  to 
a  gentleman  with  a  white  beard.  Recollect  ?  " 

"Ah,  yes,  yes:  you  are  right.  He  had  a 
white  beard.  He  was  also  a  Jew.  We  spoke 
\njudisch.  I  remember." 

"  By  Jove,  hasn't  Mr.  Arkush  a  wonderful 
memory?"  cried  Merivale,  turning  to  me. 

"  I  happen  to  remember,"  volunteered  Mr. 
Arkush,  unperturbed  by  the  compliment, 
"  because  when  I  put  that  article  into  the  win 
dow  I  said  to  myself,  '  You  won't  get  no  cus 
tomer  for  that.  What  good  is  it  to  any  one? 
You  made  a  mistake  to  lend  your  money  on  it. 
That  was  a  loss.'  But  the  very  same  day  the 
old  gentleman  came  in  and  bought  it,  which 
was  a  surprise." 

"Ah,  I  see.  Could  you  tell  me,  Mr.  Arkush, 
of  whom  you  got  it  originally — who  pledged  it 
with  you  ?  " 

"Z)u  lieber  Gott !  how  should  I  remember 
that  ?  It  was  two  years  ago  already." 

f  True,  but — but   your  books  would    show." 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  173 

"Yes,  my  books  would  show  the  name  the 
person  gave. ' ' 

"Well,  will  you  kindly  refer  to  your  books?" 

' '  Ach,  you  make  me  much  trouble ! — Yakub, ' ' 
he  called. 

The  young  man  came. 

Arkush  told  Yakub  to  get  him  the  ledger  for 
1 8-— .  It  was  a  ponderous  and  dingy  volume. 
Yakub  held  it  open  while  his  employer  turned 
the  pages,  running  his  finger  from  the  top  to 
the  bottom  of  each.  At  length  the  finger 
reached  a  stand-still.  Mr.  Arkush  said,  "Yes 
I  have  found  it.  It  was  pawned  with  me  by  a 
man  calling  himself  Joseph  White." 

"  The  date?" 

"The  1 6th  January.  " 

"  Have  you  any  means  of  recalling  what  sort 
of  looking  individual  Joseph  White  was?  And 
by  the  way,  is  his  residence  given?  " 

"  '  Residence,  Harlem,'  it  says.  That's  all. 
How  should  I  remember  his  looks?  " 

' '  Of  course — you  see  so  many  people  in  the 
course  of  a  year,  it  is  not  wonderful  that  you 
should  forget.— But  tell  me,  did  White  put  any 
thing  else  in  pawn  that  day  ?  " 


174  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"  No,  sir ;  nothing  else." 

"  He  simply  pawned  this  one  article  and  went 
away;  that's  all?" 

"  That's  all." 

"Hum!" 

Merivale  reflected.  At  length  he  resumed 
"  But  at  any  other  time — that  is,  does  White's 
name  appear  on  your  ledger  under  any  other 
date?" 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  read  through  the 
book?"  inquired  Arkush,  with  the  tone  of 
protestation.  "  That  is  too  much." 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry  to  annoy  you,  but  this 
information  I  am  seeking  is  of  such  great  im 
portance — you  understand — it's  worth  a  consid 
eration." 

"Oh,  well,  that's  different,"  said  Arkush. 
"  What  will  you  give  ?  " 

"  I'll  give  twenty-five  cents  for  each  month 
that  you  go  over — is  it  enough  ?  " 

"  Here,  Yakub,"  cried  Arkush.  "  Run  back 
from  January  i6th,  and  see  if  you  find  the  name 
of  Joseph  White  again." 

Yakub  carried  the  ledger  to  a  desk  hard  by, 
and  began  his  task. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  175 

"  Do  you  smoke  ? "  Merivale  asked  the  old 
man,  offering  him  a  cigar.  Presently  the  air 
became  blue  with  aromatic  vapor. 

"  Here  you  are  !  "  called  Yakub  from  his  stool. 
He  proceeded  to  read  aloud,  "  '  December  /th 
— one  onyx  seal  ring — amount,  one  dollar 
and  a  quarter — to  Joseph  White — residence, 
Leonard  street — ticket-number,  15,672. — Same 
date — one  ornamented  wooden  box — amount, 
fifteen  cents — to  Joseph  White — residence,  as 
above — ticket-number,  15,673.'  ' 

"  Keep  still,"  said  Merivale  in  an  aside,  as  he 
saw  my  lips  open.  "  I'll  do  the  talking. — I'm 
infinitely  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Arkush.  Now,  if 
I  may  trespass  just  a  little  further  upon  your 
indulgence,  can  you  tell  me  whether  you  still 
have  either  of  those  articles  in  stock?  If  so,  I 
should  be  glad  to  see  them — with  a  view  to 
purchasing,  of  course." 

"  Look,  Yakub,"  said  Arkush.  "  Was  those 
goods  redeemed  ?  " 

Yakub  returned  the  ledger  to  the  shelf  whence 
he  had  taken  it,  and  produced  another  book  of 
similar  proportions  in  its  stead.  Presently  he 
said,  "Number  15,672,  sold  August  20,  18 — ; 
Number  15,673 — see  profit  and  loss." 


it 76  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"  Number  15,672  was  the  ring,  was  it  not? 
asked  Merivale.     "Number  15,673  is  referred 
to  the   account    of   profit   and    loss — will  you 
kindly    turn    to     it    under    that     head,    Mr. 
Yakub?" 

Yakub  possessed  himself  of  a  third  volume, 
and  in  due  time  read,  " '  Number  15,673 — July, 
1 8— ,  given  to  R. — Amount  of  loss,  fifteen 
cents.'  " 

"  Let  me  see  that  entry,"  said  Arkush, 

After  he  had  scrutinized  it,  "  Oh  yes,"  he 
continued,  "  I  recollect.  White  was  a  colored 
man.  I  recollect  all  about  it.  That  ring  and 
that  box  were  the  first  things  he  brought  here  ; 
that  picture  was  the  last.  I  happen  to  recollect 
because  I  gave  that  box  to  my  daughter,  Re 
becca,  instead  of  offering  it  for  sale." 

"  Ah,"  said  Merivale,  "  then  I  suppose 
Miss  Rebecca  has  it  still.  Could  she  be  per- 
suaded  to  show  it  to  us?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  will  ask  her." 

He  sent  Yakub  into  the  front  room  with 
instructions  for  Rebecca  to  present  herself. 

On  her  arrival,  they  held  a  brief  conference 
together  in  Jwlisch.  Then  Rebecca  went  away, 


AS  IT  WAS  WRIT  TEN.  177 

and  Arkush  said  to  us,  "  Yes,  she  has  got  it 
yet.  She  has  gone  to  fetch  it." 

During  her  absence  Merivale  resumed,  "You 
are  quite  sure  that  it  is  useless  to  go  further 
back  in  your  books — that  the  name  of  White 
doesn't  occur  in  any  other  place?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  am  sure.  I  recollect  perfectly. 
He  was  a  colored  man.  He  only  came 
twice." 

"  I  notice  that  on  one  occasion  his  address  is 
given  as  Harlem,  on  another  as  Leonard  street. 
How  is  that?" 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  Maybe  he  moved. 
Maybe  neither  address  was  his  true  one.  These 
people  very  often  give  false  names  and 
addresses." 

"  I  suppose  they  do,"  Merivale  assented,  and 
thereafter  held  his  peace,  chewing  his  nether 
lip  as  his  habit  was  when  engrossed  in  thought. 

For  my  part  I  could  not  see  that  we  had 
made  much  progress.  I  was  beginning  to  get 
impatient. 

Becky  reappeared,  bearing  the  box. 

The   box  was   about   ten  inches  square   by 

four  or  five  in  depth.     It  was  empty.    Merivale 
12 


1 78  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

did  not  allow  me  to  examine  it.  "  Wait,"  he 
said,  as  I  reached  out  my  hand  to  take  it. 

"  Would  you  mind  very  much  parting  with 
this  box,  Miss  Arkush  ?  "  he  asked,  fixing  a  pair 
of  languishing  eyes  upon  Rebecca's  face. 

"  What  will  you  give  me  for  it  ?  "  the  busi 
ness-like  young  lady  inquired. 

"  What  will  you  accept  ?  " 

"  What's  it  worth,  father  ?  " 

"  That  box  is  worth  two  dollars  any  how," 
replied  the  shameless  old  usurer,  regardless  of 
the  fact  that  we  knew  to  a  mill  what  he  had 
paid  for  it. 

"  Then  certainly  this  will  be  enough,"  said 
Merivale,  and  he  slipped  a  five-dollar  gold  piece 
into  Rebecca's  palm.  Then  he  settled  with 
Arkush,  bestowed  a  gratuity  upon  Yakub,  and 
bidding  an  affable  good-by  to  every  body,  led 
me  out  through  the  shop  into  the  street. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "we  have  run  against  the 
dead  wall  that  you  foresaw." 

"  So  it  appears,"  said  he. 

"The  picture  was  pawned  by  a  colored 
man  only  two  years  ago — that  is,  four-and- 
twenty  years  after  my  father's  death.  We 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  179 

don't  know  of  any  means  by  which  to  reach 
that  colored  man  ;  but  even  if  we  did — " 

41  It  would  be  a  forlorn  hope." 

"  Exactly.  So  that  we  stand  just  as  we  did 
before  we  left  home,  do  we  not  ?  Except  that 
you  are  by  five  dollars  a  poorer  man.  It  was 
sheer  extravagance,  your  purchasing  that  box. 
I  suppose  your  imagination  connected  it  with 
the  box — the  box  that  Dr.  Hirsch  told  me  of. 
But  the  probabilities  are  overwhelmingly  against 
that  contingency.  Then,  why  did  you  waste 
your  money,  buying  it  ?  Intrinsically,  it  isn't 
worth  carrying  away." 

"  Hush,  hush,"  interposed  my  friend.  "  Don't 
talk  to  me.  I  have  an  idea — an  idea  for  a  story 
— apropos  of  Arkush  and  his  daughter.  Bless 
me  with  silence  until  I  have  meditated  it  to  my 
soul's  satisfaction." 

At  home  he  began,  "  Yes,  as  you  have  said, 
our  interview  with  Arkush  was  not  fruitful.  We 
have  simply  learned  the  name — or  the  assumed 
name — of  the  last  owner  of  your  father's 
picture — for,  that  it  is  your  father's  picture  I 
have  no  sort  of  doubt.  The  next  step  would 
logically  be  to  find  Mr.  White  and  question 


l8o  AS  JT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

him.  It  is  possible  that  a  tempting  advertise 
ment  in  the  newspaper  might  fetch  him ;  but 
it  is  not  probable.  Very  likely,  he  would  never 
see  it.  Very  likely,  he  is  a  thief,  and  even  if  he 
did  see  it,  would  be  restrained  by  caution  from 
replying  to  it.  So  that  the  outlook  is  not  hope 
ful.  As  for  this  box  being  the  box — why,  the 
hypothesis  is  absurd.  It  was  not  on  that  sup 
position  that  I  bought  it.  And  even  if  it  were 
the  box,  it  would  be  of  little  consequence, 
empty  as  it  is.  I  trust  you  are  not  too  much 
disappointed." 

"  By  no  means.  I  have  managed  to  live  for 
a  considerable  number  of  years  in  Iny  present 
state  of  ignorance  about  my  vanished  legacy, 
and  doubtless  I  shall  pull  through  a  few  years 
more.  Only,  of  course  I  was  bound  to  follow 
the  clew  that  this  picture  seemed  to  furnish,  as 
far  as  it  would  lead  ;  and  having  done  so  I  am 
contented.  I  was  not  very  hopeful  when  we 
started  out,  wherefore  I  am  not  very  disap 
pointed  at  the  result.  Let's  think  no  more 
about  it." 

"  Good  !  Your  mind  is  imbued  with  a  sound 
philosophy.  But  now — " 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  181 

"  But  now,  tell  me  why  in  the  name  of  com 
mon  sense  you  invested  five  dollars  jn  that 
box  ?  " 

"  Precisely  what  I  was  driving  at.  Now  you 
are  going  to  have  a  practical  illustration  of  the 
value  of  experience." 

He  took  the  box  up  from  the  table  where 
he  had  laid  it. 

"  You  think  that  '  intrinsically,  this  wasn't 
worth  carrying  away,'  and  that  my  expenditure 
of  half  an  eagle  was  a  reckless  waste  of  good 
material.  To  an  inexperienced  observer  your 
view  would  certainly  seem  the  correct  one.  The 
box  is  scarcely  beautiful.  The  wood  is  oak.  The 
metal  with  which  its  surface  is  so  profusely 
ornamented  looks  like  copper.  The  thing  as  a 
whole  appears  to  have  been  designed  for  a 
cheapish  jewel-case,  now  in  the  last  stage  of 
decrepitude.  Do  I  express  your  sentiments?  " 

"  Eloquently  and  with  precision." 

"  But  you,  my  dear  Lexow,  are  not  a  con 
noisseur.  I,  as  chance  would  have  it,  have  seen 
a  box  of  this  description  before ;  saw  one  in 
France,  the  property  of  a  lady  of  high  degree  ; 
and,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  don't  believe  a 


l8»  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

hundred  bright  gold  pieces  such  as  the  one  I 
gave  Rebecca,  could  have  induced  my  French 
lady  friend  to  part  with  it.  Guess  why." 

"Why?  Oh,  I  suppose  it  had  certain  associ 
ations  that  made  her  want  to  keep  it.  We 
often  prize  things  quite  irrespective  of  their 
market  value.  But  go  on :  don't  be  so  round 
about." 

"  Well,  the  reason— at  least  one.  reason — for 
her  setting  such  store  by  the  box  in  question — 
which,  I  must  remind  you,  was  the  very  dupli 
cate  of  the  one  we  have  here — the  reason,  I 
say,  was  that  she  knew  enough  about  such  mat 
ters  to  recognize  that  box  for  a  specimen  of 
cinque-cento — a  specimen  of  cinque-cento  !  Now 
do  you  begin  to  realize  that  the  paltry  five 
dollars  were  not  exorbitant  ?  " 

"  Oh,  from  the  standpoint  of  an  antiquary, 
an  amateur  of  bric-a-brac,  I  suppose  it  was  not." 

"  Excellent !  No,  sir ;  on  the  contrary,  it  was 
an  immense  bargain,  a  thorough-going  stroke 
of  luck.  But  now  please  take  the  box  into 
your  own  hands,  treat  it  gingerly,  inspect  it  care 
fully,  and  tell  me  whether  you  remark  any  thing 
extraordinary  about  it." 


AS  IT  WAS   WRITTEN.  183 

"  Nothing,  except  that  it  is  extraordinarily 
ugly  and  doesn't  speak  well  for  cinque-cento," 
I  replied,  after  the  requisite  examination. 

"Another  proof  that  das  Sehen  muss  gelernt 
sein  !  Here.  I  will  enlighten  you. — You  behold 
this  metal  work  which  a  moment  since  we  dis 
posed  of  as  copper  ;  learn  that  it  is  bronze ; 
and  not  cast  bronze,  either,  but  wrought  bronze, 
bronze  shaped  with  hammer  and  chisel.  Look 
closely  at  it ;  note  the  forms  into  which  it  has 
been  modeled.  See  these  roses,  these  lilies, 
these  lotus  leaves ;  see  how  exquisitely  they 
are  fashioned ;  see  how  they  are  massed 
together  into  a  harmonious  ensemble.  Now 
hold  it  close  to  your  eyes  :  see — do  you  see  ? — 
this  serpent  twined  among  the  flowers!  The 
artist  must  have  worked  from  life — the  very 
texture  of  the  skin  is  reproduced — it  makes  one 
shudder." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  admit  it  is  a  fine  piece  of 
work." 

"  But  we  have  not  yet  exhausted  the  list  of 
its  virtues  by  any  means.  Now  open  it  and 
look  at  the  interior." 

"  I  see  nothing  remarkable  about  the  inte 
rior,"  I  replied,  "  nothing  but  bare  wood." 


184  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"  That  is  all  you  sec ;  but  watch." 

He  applied  the  point  of  a  pencil  to  one  of 
the  series  of  nail-heads  with  which  the  top  of 
the  lid  was  studded.  It  appeared  to  sink  a 
hair's-breadth  into  the  wood.  Thereat  the 
lower  surface  of  the  lid  dropped  down,  disclos 
ing  a  hollow  space  between  it  and  the  upper. — 
"  A  double  cover,"  he  said,  "  a  place  for  hiding 
things  and — hello  !  it  isn't  empty  !  " 

No,  it  wasn't  empty.  It  contained  a  large, 
square  envelope.  Merivale  hastily  made  a  grab 
for  it,  and  crossed  over  to  the  gas-fixture. 
"  Have  we  stumbled  upon  a  romance  ?  "  he  cried. 
Holding  it  up  to  the  light,  presently  he  said  : 
"  Come  hither,  Lexow.  The  writing  is  German 
script.  I  can't  read  it.  Come  and  help." 

He  put  the  envelope  into  my  hands.  I  ran 
my  eyes  over  the  writing.  Next  moment  the 
envelope  fluttered  to  the  floor.  I  grasped 
Merivale's  arm  to  support  myself.  My  breath 
became  short  and  quick.  "  I  was  not  prepared 
for  this,"  I  gasped. 

"For  what?  What  is  the  trouble?"  he 
asked. 

I  sank  into  a  chair.     Merivale  picked  up  the 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  185 

envelope  and  studied  it  intently.  "  I  can  make 
nothing  out  of  it,"  he  said. 

"  Give  it  to  me — I  will  read  it  to  you,"  I 
rejoined. 

This  is  what  I  read  : — 

"  To  be  delivered  to  my  son,  Ernest  Neu- 
man,  upon  his  attaining  the  age  of  one-and- 
twenty  years.  Let  there  be  no  failure,  as  the 
will  of  a  dying  man  is  honored. — To  my  son : 
Open  and  read  on  your  twenty-first  birthday. 
Be  alone  when  you  read. — Your  father,  Ernest 
Neuman." 

Neither  of  us  broke  silence  for  some  minutes 
afterward. 

At  last,  "  I  guess  I'd  better  clear  out,"  said 
Merivale.  "  This  is  considerably  more  than  we 
had  bargained  for.  I  suppose  you'd  like  to  be 
alone.  I'll  remain  in  the  next  room.  Call,  if 
you  want  me." 

"  Yes,"  I  returned,  "  I  may  as  well  read  it 
at  once.  But  do  you  know — it's  quite  natural, 
doubtless — I  really  dread  opening  it?  Who 
can  tell  what  its  contents  may  be?  Who  can 
tell  what  information  it  may  convey,  to  the 
detriment  of  that  ignorance  which  is  bliss  ?  Who 


1 86  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

can  tell  what  duty  it  may  impose — what  change 
it  may  make  necessary  in  my  mode  of  life  ?  I — 
I  am  really  afraid  of  it.  The  superscription  is 
not  reassuring — and  then,  this  strange  accident 
by  which  it  has  reached  its  destination  after  so 
many  years  !  It  is  like  a  fatality." 

"  It  is  inevitable  that  you  should  feel  this 
way.  The  suddenness  of  the  business  was 
enough  to  shatter  your  self-possession.  At 
the  same  time  you  would  best  not  delay  about 
reading  it.  You  won't  be  able  to  rest  until 
you've  done  so,  you  know. — Yes,  indeed,  it  is 
like  a  fatality — like  an  incident  in  a  novel — one 
of  those  happenings  that  we  never  expect  to 
see  occur  in  real  life.  I'll  wait  in  the  next 
room  till  you  call." 

My  heart  stood  still  as  I  broke  the  seal. 
Four  double  sheets  of  thin  glazed  paper,  cov 
ered  with  minute  German  script.  The  ink  was 
faded,  and  there  were  a  good  many  blots  and 
interlineations ;  so  that  it  was  only  by  dint  cf 
straining  my  eyesight  to  the  utmost  that  I 
could  decipher  my  father's  message.  But 
screwing  up  my  courage,  I  attacked  it,  nor  did 
I  pause  till  I  had  read  the  last  word. 


H 


XL 

ERE  is  a  translation : — 

"  In  the  name  of  God,  Amen  ! 
"  To  my  son  • 

"  You  are  a  little  less  than  two  years  old  ;  I, 
your  father,  am  dying.  I  shall  be  dead  before 
your  birthday.  That  will  be  the  6th  Cheshvan. 
It  is  now  the  2nd  Ellul.  The  physician  gives 
me  till  some  time  in  Tishri  to  keep  possession 
of  my  faculties.  I  am  dying  before  my  time. 
I  have  something  yet  to  accomplish  in  this 
world.  "  has  willed  that  it  be  accomplished. 
He  has  willed  that  you  accomplish  it  in  my 
stead.  I  am  in  my  bed  as  I  write  this,  in  the 
bed  from  which  I  shall  not  rise  again.  Through 
the  open  door  of  my  room  I  can  hear  you  crow 
ing  in  your  nurse's  arms.  Ah,  would  that  you 
could  understand  by  word  of  mouth  from  me 
now,  what  I  am  compelled  to  write.  There  is 
so  much  that  a  man  can  not  but  forget  to  put 


1 88  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

down,  when  he  is  writing.  Yet  "  will  illu 
mine  my  mind  and  strengthen  my  trembling 
fingers.  "  will  not  allow  me  to  forget  any 
thing  that  is  essential.  When  this  is  completed, 
I  shall  put  it  into  safe  hands,  that  it  may  be 
delivered  to  you  at  the  proper  time.  I  have 
no  fear.  I  am  sure  it  will  reach  you.  It  will 
reach  you  sooner  or  later,  though  all  men  con 
spire  to  the  contrary.  "  has  promised  it.  He 
will  render  this  writing  indelible,  this  paper 
indestructible.  He  will  guide  this  to  you,  even 
as  He  guides  the  river  to  the  sea,  the  star  to 
the  zenith.  Blessed  be  the  name  of  "  forever. 

"  My  son,  before  you  read  further,  cover 
your  head  and  pray.  Pray  to  "  for  strength. 
Pray  that  the  will  of  your  father  may  be  done. 
Pray  that  you  may  be  directed  aright  for  the 
fulfillment  of  this  errand  of  justice  with  which 
I  charge  you. 

"  You  have  prayed.  I  also  have  laid  aside 
my  pen  for  a  moment,  and,  summoning  your 
nurse  to  bring  you  to  my  bedside,  have  prayed 
with  my  hand  upon  your  head.  "  will  be  with 
you  as  you  read.  Read  on. 

"  My  son,  you  do  not,  you  will   never  know 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  189 

your  mother.  You  do  not  love  her  ;  you  hear 
not  the  sound  of  her  voice  ;  it  is  forbidden  you 
to  gaze  into  the  lustrous  depths  of  her  eyes. 
Ah,  my  son,  you  little  guess  how  much  you 
lost  when  you  lost  your  mother.  But  you 
must  learn  the  truth. 

"  Your  mother  was  younger  than  I  by  seven 
years.  I  am  thirty.  Your  mother  would  be 
three-and-twenty  had  she  lived.  She  was  nine- 
teen  when  I  married  her.  It  was  in  Savannah, 
Georgia,  going  on  five  years  ago.  Ah,  my 
Ernest,  I  can  not  tell  you  how  beautiful  your 
mother  appeared  to  me  when  I  saw  her  first. 
I  can  not  tell  you  with  what  great  love  I  loved 
her.  Suppose  that  you  had  never  seen  a  stone 
more  precious  than  a  pebble  such  as  may  be 
picked  up  in  our  back  garden,  and  that  all  at 
once  a  diamond  were  shown  to  you,  a  diamond 
of  the  purest  water:  would  you  not  distrust 
your  eyes,  crying,  '  Ah,  so  fine,  so  wonderful  i 
Can  it  be  ?  ' — So  was  it  when  I  saw  your  mother. 
I  had  seen  pebbles  innumerable,  ay,  and 
mock  diamonds  too.  She  was  the  first  true 
diamond  I  had  ever  seen.  I  loved  her  at  the 
first  glance. — How  long,  after  the  sun  has  risen, 


I$0  ,4S  IT  IV AS  WKITTEN. 

does  it  take  the  waters  of  the  earth  to  sparkle 
with  the  sunlight  ?  So  long  it  took  my  heart 
to  love,  after  my  eyes  for  the  first  time  had  met 
your  mother's.  But  how  much  I  loved  her, 
how  every  drop  of  my  life  was  sucked  up  and 
absorbed  into  my  love  of  her,  it  would  be  use 
less  for  me  to  try  to  make  you  understand. 

"  And  yet,  loving  her  as  I  did,  I  hesitated 
to  bespeak  her  for  my  wife.  Why  ? 

"  In  my  eighteenth  year  my  own  father— your 
grandfather,  of  holy  memory — had  died.  On 
his  death-bed  he  called  me  to  him.  He  said : 
'  When  you  have  become  a  man  you  will  meet 
many  women.  To  one  of  them  your  heart  will 
go  out  in  love.  You  will  desire  her  for  your 
wife.  But  I  say  to  you  here  on  my  death-bed, 
beware !  Do  not  marry,  though  your  love  be 
greater  than  your  life. 

" '  In  the  fourth  generation  back  of  me  our 
ancestor  was  betrayed  by  the  wife  of  his  choice. 
So  great  was  his  hatred  of  her  on  this  account, 
that  he  wished  his  seed,  contaminated  as  it  was 
by  having  taken  root  in  her  womb,  to  become 
extinct.  Therefore  he  forbade  his  son  to  marry. 
And  to  this  prohibition  he  attached  a  penalty. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  191 

If,  in  defiance  of  his  wish,  his  son  should  take 
unto  himself  a  woman,  then  should  he  too  taste 
the  bitterness  of  infidelity  within  the  household, 
then  should  he  too  be  betrayed  and  dishonored 
by  his  wife.  And  this  penalty  he  made  to  ex 
tend  to  the  seventh  and  eighth  generations. 
Whosoever  of  his  progeny  should  enter  into 
the  wedded  state  should  enter  by  the  same  step 
into  the  antechamber  of  hell. 

"  '  But  his  son  laughed  as  he  listened  ;  and 
within  two  years  he  was  married.  But  within 
two  years  also  the  laughter  froze  upon  his  lips. 
For  behold,  the  curse  of  his  father  had  come  to 
pass  ! 

"  '  Thus  ever  since.  Each  of  our  ancestors, 
despite  his  father's  caution,  has  taken  a  wife. 
He  has  been  betrayed  and  dishonored  by  her 
even  as  I  have  been  betrayed  and  dishonored 
by  your  mother.  He  has  repeated  to  his  own 
son  the  family  malediction  even  as  I  am  now 
repeating  it  to  you. — Let  that  malediction  then 
go  down  into  the  grave  with  me.  Do  not 
marry,  as  you  wish  for  peace  now  and  here 
after.' 

"  It  was  in  this  wise  that  on  his  death-bed 


19*  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

my  father  had  spoken  to  me.  I  remembered 
his  words  when  I  found  that  I  had  begun  to 
love  a  woman.  It  was  for  this  reason  that  I 
hesitated  to  ask  your  mother  to  become  my 
wife. 

*  "  Ah,  but,  my  son,  of  what  avail  is  hesitation 
at  such  a  moment  ? — when  you  are  gazing  into 
the  eyes  of  the  woman  you  love?  With  sails 
set  and  a  strong  wind  behind  it,  can  the  ship 
hesitate  to  speed  across  the  sea  ?  Thrust  into 
a  bed  of  live  coals,  can  the  wood  hesitate  to 
kindle  and  burn?  With  the  sun  beating  hot 
upon  the  earth  above  it,  can  the  seed  hesitate 
to  sprout  and  send  forth  rootlets?  How  long 
then  could  I,  with  the  light  of  your  mother's 
face  shining  upon  my  pathway,  how  long  could 
I  hesitate  to  say, '  I  love  you.  Be  my  wife '  ? — 
We  were  married. 

"You,  my  son,  will  never  know  how  happy 
it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  be.  A  woman  such 
as  your  mother  is  born  only  once  in  all  time. 
You  will  never  meet  with  her  like.  You  will 
never  know  the  supreme  joy  of  having  her  for 
your  wife.  Her  breath  was  sweeter  than  the 
fragrance  of  the  sweetest  flower.  The  song  of 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  193 

the  nightingale  was  less  musical  than  her  sim 
plest  word.  All  the  light  of  heaven  was  eclipsed 
by  the  light  that  glowed  far  down  in  her  eyes. 
Her  presence  at  my  side  was  a  foretaste  of 
paradise.  Only  to  take  her  hand  into  my  own 
and  stroke  its  warm,  satiny  skin,  was  an  ecstasy 
which  I  can  not  describe,  which  I  can  not  remem 
ber  even  at  this  extreme  moment  without  a 
quickening  of  the  pulse.  For  three,  yes,  for 
four  years  after  our  marriage  we  were  so  happy 
that  we  cried  each  morning  and  each  evening 
at  our  prayers,  '  Lord,  what  have  we  done  to 
merit  such  happiness?' — I,  my  son,  laughed  as 
I  recalled  the  dying  words  of  my  father.  '  The 
family  curse  in  my  case,'  I  said,  '  has  gone 
astray.  I  have  no  fear.' — Alas !  I  took  too 
much  for  granted.  I  congratulated  myself  too 
soon.  Our  happiness  was  doomed  to  be  burst 
like  a  bubble  at  a  touch.  The  family  curse  had 
perhaps  gone  astray  for  a  little  while :  it  was 
bound  to  find  its  way  back  before  the  end.  The 
will  of  our  ancestor  could  not  be  thwarted. 

"  The  first  three  years  of  our  married  life  we 
passed  at  Savannah,  dwelling  with  the  parents 
of  your  mother.  There  you  were  born— as  it 

T3 


194  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

seemed,  in  order  to  consummate  and  seal  with 
the  seal  of  "  our  perfect  joy.  Then,  when 
you  were  still  but  three  months  old,  it  became 
necessary  that  I  should  return  and  take  up  my 
residence  again  in  New  York.  We  were  not 
sorry  to  come  to  New  York. 

"  Nicholas  had  been  my  closest  friend  for  many 
years.  Boys  together  at  Breslau,  we  had 
crossed  the  sea  together,  and  had  started  our 
new  life  together  here  in  America.  Before  our 
wedding  I  had  described  Nicholas  to  your 
mother,  saying,  '  Him  also  must  you  love ;'  and 
to  Nicholas  I  had  written,  bidding  him  include 
my  wife  in  his  love  of  me. — This  was  why  we 
were  not  sorry  to  leave  Savannah  and  come  to 
New  York :  because  Nicholas  was  here,  because 
we  wanted  to  be  near  to  our  best  friend. — 
Nicholas  met  us  as  we  disembarked  from  the 
sailing  vessel  that  had  brought  us  hither.  It 
made  my  heart  warm  to  greet  my  old  comrade 
and  to  present  to  him  my  wife  and  my  son. 

"  I  was  a  true  friend  to  Nicholas.  After  your 
mother  and  you,  he  was  first  in  my  heart.  I 
would  have  shared  with  him  my  last  drop  of 
water,  my  last  crumb  of  bread ;  and  he,  I  be- 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  19$ 

lieved,  would  have  done  the  same  by  me.  My 
purse  was  always  open  for  Nicholas  to  put  in  his 
hand  and  take  out  what  he  would,  even  to  the 
last  penny.  I  thought  Nicholas  was  pure  gold. 
I  trusted  him  as  I  trusted  myself.  I  said  to 
your  mother,  '  No  evil  can  betide  you  so  long  as 
Nicholas  is  alive.  .  If  any  thing  should  happen 
to  me,  in  him  you  will  have  a  brother,  in  him 
our  Ernest  will  have  a  second  father.'  It  gave 
me  a  sense  of  perfect  security,  made  me  feel 
that  the  strength  of  my  own  right  arm  was 
doubled,  the  fact  that  Nicholas  was  my  friend. 
"  Good.  After  my  return  to  New  York  the 
intimacy  between  Nicholas  and  myself  in 
creased.  He  was  constantly  at  our  house.  We 
were  always  glad  to  see  him.  A  place  was  always 
laid  for  him  at  our  table  ;  it  made  our  hearts 
light  to  have  him  with  us,  so  bright,  so  gay, 
withal  so  good,  so  sterling,  such  a  trusty  friend 
was  he.  I  delighted  to  witness  the  friendship 
that  rapidly  sprang  up  between  your  mother 
and  Nicholas.  He  entertained  her,  told  her 
stories,  made  her  laugh. — She  would  often  ex 
claim,  '  Dear,  good  Nicholas  !  What  should  we 
do  without  him  ?  '  I  replied,  '  That  is  right 


196  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

Let  him  be  next  to  your  son  and  your  husband 
in  your  affection.'  I  do  not  think  it  is  common 
for  one  man  to  love  another  as  I  loved  Nicho 
las. 

"But  after  we  had  been  in  New  York  a  little 
more  than  two  months,  your  mother's  manner 
toward  Nicholas  began  to  change.  She  was 
cold  and  formal  to  him  ;  when  he  would  arrive, 
instead  of  running  up  with  outstretched  hands 
and  crying,  'Ah,  it  is  you  ! '  she  would  courtesy 
to  him  and  say  without  smiling,  'How  do  you 
do  ? ' — She  laughed  no  more  at  his  stories,  she  ap 
peared  to  avoid  him  when  she  could  ;  when  she 
could  not,  she  was  silent  and  morose.  I  could 
see  no  reason  for  this.  I  was  pained.  I  said, 

I  Bertha,  why    do  you  behave  so  toward  our 
best  friend  ?  '    Your  mother  pretended  not  to 
understand.     '  Don't  deny  it/  I  insisted.    '  You 
are  as  distant,  as  polite  to  him,  as  if  he  were  a 
mere   acquaintance.'     Your  mother  answered, 

I 1  am  sorry  to  distress  you.    I  don't  know  what 
you  mean.     I  was  not  aware  that  I  had  been 
discourteous  to  your  friend.' — '  Has  Nicholas 
done  any  thing  ?  '  I  asked. — '  No,  he  has  done 
nothing.' — I  blamed  your  mother  severely.     I 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  197 

besought  her  to  subdue  what  I  took  for  her 
caprice.  Yet  every  day  her  conduct  toward 
Nicholas  grew  colder  and  more  formal.  Every 
day  I  reproved  her  more  and  more  earnestly. 
This  was  the  nearest  approach  to  a  quarrel  that 
your  mother  and  I  had  ever  had.  It  grieved 
me  deeply  that  she  should  adopt  such  a  manner 
toward  my  friend.  I  was  all  the  more  cordial 
to  him  in  consequence.  I  hoped  that  he  would 
not  notice  the  turn  affairs  had  taken. 

"  Thus  till  almost  a  year  ago.  You  lacked 
but  a  fortnight  of  being  one  year  old. 

"  Business  had  kept  me  down  town  till  late. 
At  last  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  should  not 
be  able  to  go  home  at  all  that  night.  So  I  told 
Nicholas  to  visit  Bertha  and  let  her  know. 
'  Spend  the  evening  with  her,'  I  said.  '  Explain 
how  it  is  that  I  am  compelled  to  remain  here. 
Tell  her  that  I  will  come  home  to  breakfast.  Be 
sure  to  entertain  her.  I  don't  want  to  think  of 
her  as  lonesome.' 

"  Next  morning  I  hurried  home.  I  stole 
softly  into  the  house,  to  surprise  your  mother. 
Ah,  my  son,  my  son,  I  need  not  give  you  the 
details.— The  house  was  empty.  There  was  a 


198  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

brief  letter  from  your  mother.  As  I  read  it,  my 
head  swam,  a  mortal  weakness  overpowered  me, 
I  sank  in  a  swoon  upon  the  floor. 

"When  I  recovered  from  my  swoon,  I  was 
lying  undressed  in  bed.  There  were  people 
roundabout.  I  remembered  every  thing.  What! 
I  was  lying  idle  in  bed,  and  Nicholas  still  alive  ? 
I  started  up  to  be  upon  his  track.  I  fell  back, 
impotent.  'What  has  befallen  me?'  I  asked. 
I  was  informed  that  I  had  had  a  hemorrhage  of 
the  lungs. 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  what  I  suffered.  My 
suffering  was  great  in  proportion  to  my  love. 
The  shame,  the  disgrace,  were  nothing.  But 
at  one  blow  to  be  deprived  of  wife,  child, 
friend ;  to  have  my  love  and  my  faith  and  my 
happiness  shattered  at  one  stroke  :  it  was  too 
much.  Yet,  let  this  be  impressed  upon  you, 
that  not  for  one  instant  did  I  blame  your 
mother.  I  realized  that  she,  like  myself,  was  but 
the  helpless  victim  of  the  family  curse.  It  was 
my  fault.  I  had  defied  the  inevitable.  The 
keenest  agony  of  all  was  to  lie  there,  unable  to 
rise,  and  think  of  Nicholas.  Ah,  a  thousand 
times  in  imagination  I  tore  his  heart  bleeding 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  199 

from  his  breast !  I  hated  him  now,  as  much  as 
I  had  formerly  cherished  him.  And  yet,  * 
believe  I  could  in  the  end  have  forgiven  him 
if — ah,  but  of  what  use  to  say,  '  If '  ?  Listen  tr 
the  truth. 

"  It  was  a  short  four  months  afterward — four 
months  that  had  seemed,  however,  a  thousand 
years  to  me — and  I  still  lay  here  dead  in  life, 
when  the  good  Dr.  Hirsch,  (to  whom  now  in 
my  dying  hours  I  commend  you,  my  son),  came 
to  my  bedside  and  said  that  he  had  seen  your 
mother.  He  believed  that  if  I  would  take  her 
back,  she  would  be  glad.  If  I  would  take  her 
back !  '  Bring  her  to  me,'  I  cried.  And  I 
thanked  "  for  this  manifestation  of  his  mercy. 
*  You  must  prepare  for  a  sad  change  in  her,' 
said  Dr.  Hirsch. — '  Bring  her,  bring  her,'  I  cried 
impatiently. 

"  Not  even  to  you,  my  son,  can  I  reveal  the 
secret  of  that  first  hour,  of  that  deep  hour,  when 
your  mother  sat  again  at  my  side  and  received 
my  pardon — nay,  not  my  pardon,  for  it  was  her 
place  to  pardon  me.  If  before  that  it  had  been 
possible  for  me  to  forgive  Nicholas,  it  was  so 
no  longer.  For  your  mother's  face  was  deathly 


100  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

pale,  her  cheek  hollow,  her  eye  bright  with 
fever.  Nicholas  had — what  ?  Petted  her  for  a 
month  ;  for  a  month,  ignored  her  ;  for  another 
month,  ill  treated  her  ;  in  the  end,  abandoned 
her,  it  might  be  to  starve.  Nicholas  had  done 
this — Nicholas  whom  I  had  loved  and  trusted. 
As  I  saw  your  mother  pine  away,  grow  paler 
and  more  feeble  beneath  my  sight,  my  hatred 
of  that  man  intensified.  On  the  day  your 
mother  died,  I  promised  her  that  I  would  get 
well  and  live  and  force  him  to  atone  for  his 
offense  in  blood.  My  great  hatred  seemed  to 
endow  me  with  strength.  I  believed  that  " 
would  not  let  me  die  until  I  had  once  again 
met  Nicholas  face  to  face. 

"  But  this  delusion  was  short-lived.  A  second 
hemorrhage  threw  me  back,  weaker  than  ever, 
upon  my  bed.  The  physician  told  me  that  I 
had  absolutely  no  ground  for  hope.  It  was 
evident  that  "  had  willed  that  the  chastise 
ment  of  my  enemy  should  not  be  wrought  out 
by  my  hand.  '  But  "  is  just,'  I  said.  '  He 
will  not  allow  a  crime  like  this  to  go  unavenged.' 
It  was  then  that  my  thought  turned  to  you. 

"  And  all  this  time,  what  of  you  ?     You  too 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  SOI 

were  lying  at  the  point  of  death.  Of  you  too 
the  physician  said,  '  He  can  not  survive  the 
winter.'  You,  my  single  hope,  threatened  at 
any  moment  to  breathe  your  last.  '  But  no/  I 
cried,  '  it  shall  not  be  so.  My  Ernest  must  live. 
As  "  is  both  just  and  merciful,  Ernest  will 
live.' 

"  I  watched  the  fluctuations  of  your  illness, 
divided  between  hope  and  fear,  between  faith 
in  the  goodness  of  "  and  doubt  lest  the  worst 
might  come  to  pass.  Ah,  that  was  a  breathless 
period.  Day  after  day  passed  by,  and  there  was 
no  certainty.  Constantly  the  doctor  said, '  Death 
is  merely  a  question  of  a  few  days,  more  or  less.' 
Constantly  my  heart  replied,  '  No,  no,  he  will 
not  die.  "  has  decreed  that  he  shall  live.' 
I  prayed  that  your  life  might  be  spared,  morn 
ing,  noon,  and  night.  My  own  strength  was 
ebbing  away.  But  that  was  of  little  matter.  I 
wanted  to  hold  out  only  until  I  should  know 
for  good  and  all  whether  my  son  was  to  sur 
vive. 

"Blessed  be  the  name  of  "  forever!  At 
the  moment  when  the  physician  said,  '  He  will 
die  within  an  hour,'  lo !  the  God  of  our  fathers 


202  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

touched  your  body  with  his  healing  wand. 
There  was  a  change  for  the  better.  The  phy 
sician  himself  could  not  deny  it.  He  main 
tained  that  it  was  but  transitory.  '  Nothing 
short  of  a  miracle,'  said  he, '  can  save  this  baby's 
life.' 

'  We  will  see,'  said  I  aloud.  To  myself  I 
said,  '  The  miracle  has  been  performed.' 

"  I  was  right.  Two  days  later  the  physician 
confessed  that  your  chances  of  recovery  were 
good.  Two  days  later  still  you  were  out  of 
danger.  M  had  heard  my  prayers.  The  God 
of  Israel  is  a  righteous  God  !  Oh,  for  the 
tongue  of  the  prophets  to  sing  a  sufficient  song 
of  thanksgiving  to  M.  He  has  snatched  you 
from  the  clutch  of  death  for  a  purpose.  He 
will  see  to  it  that  you  fulfill  that  purpose, 
though  your  heart  be  burned  to  ashes  in  the 
task.  He  will  make  you  to  be  great  like 
Ephraim  and  Manasseh.  (Ys'imcha  Elohim 
k  'Ephraim  vchi  Manasseh  /) 

"  Again  I  have  summoned  your  nurse,  to 
bring  you  to  my  bedside.  Again  I  have  laid 
down  my  pen,  to  place  my  hand  upon  your 
head  antf  bless  you  in  the  name  of  ".  Again, 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  203 

before  reading  further,  pause  for  a  space  and 
pray  that  the  breath  of  God  may  make  strong 

your  heart. 

*  *  *  *  » 

•****» 

"My son,  I  allow  you  one-and-twenty  years 
to  become  a  man,  one-and-twenty  years  to  gain 
strength  of  arm  and  firmness  of  will.  I  allow 
you  one-and-twenty  years  of  youth,  one-and- 
twenty  years  in  which  to  enjoy  life,  free  of  care. 
On  your  twenty-first  birthday,  if  the  good  and 
reverend  Dr.  Hirsch  live,  he  will  put  this  writ 
ing  into  your  hands.  Should  he  be  dead,  others 
will  see  that  you  receive  it.  On  your  twenty- 
first  birthday  you  will  be  a  boy  no  longer.  You 
will  recognize  yourself  for  a  man.  You  will  ask, 
'  What  is  to  be  the  aim,  the  occupation  of  my 
life?'  You  will  read  this  writing,  and  your 
question  will  be  answered.  Your  father  on  the 
brink  of  the  grave  pauses  to  speak  to  you  as 
follows  : — 

"  In  the  name  of  ",  who  in  response  to  my 
prayers  has  saved  your  life,  who  created  you 
out  of  the  dust  and  the  ashes,  who  tore  you 
from  the  embrace  of  death  and  restored  health 


»04  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

to  your  shattered  body  for  one  sole  purpose,  in 
his  name  I  charge  you  :  Find  my  enemy  out 
and  put  him  to  death.  He  is  still  a  young  man. 
He  will  scarcely  be  an  old  man  when  you  have 
become  of  age.  It  is  a  long  time  to  wait,  a 
long  time  to  defer  my  vengeance,  one-and- 
twenty  years,  but  so  I  believe  "  has  willed  it. 
After  you  have  reached  the  age  of  one-and- 
twenty  years,  let  that  be  the  single  motive  and 
object  of  your  days  :  to  find  him  out  and  put 
him  to  death  by  the  most  painful  mode  of 
death  you  can  devise.  Do  not  strike  him  down 
with  one  blow.  Torture  him  to  death.  Pluck 
his  flesh  from  his  bones  shred  by  shred.  Pro 
long  his  agony  to  the  utmost.  Thus  shall  you 
compensate  in  some  measure  for  the  one-and- 
twenty  years  of  delay.  And  again  and  again 
as  he  is  writhing  under  your  heel,  cry  out  to 
him,  '  Remember,  remember  the  friend  who 
loved  you  and  whom  you  betrayed,  whose 
honey  you  turned  to  gall  and  wormwood.' 
But,  if  meanwhile  from  other  causes  death 
should  have  overtaken  him,  then  shall  you 
transfer  your  anger  to  his  next-of-kin  ;  then,  I 
charge  you,  visit  the  penalty  of  his  sin  upon  his 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  105 

children  and  his  children's  children.  For  has 
not  1»  decreed  that  the  sins  of  the  fathers  shall 
be  visited  upon  the  children  even  unto  the  third 
and  fourth  generations?  The  blood  of  Nicho 
las  must  be  spilled,  whether  it  courses  in  his 
veins  or  in  the  veins  of  his  posterity.  The  race 
of  Nicholas  must  be  exterminated,  obliterated 
from  the  face  of  the  earth.  As  you  honor  the 
wish  of  a  dying  father,  as  you  dread  the  wrath 
of  ",  falter  not  in  this  that  I  command.  Search 
the  four  corners  of  the  world  until  you  have 
unearthed  my  enemy  or  his  kindred.  Empty 
his  blood  upon  the  sand  as  you  would  the  blood 
of  swine.  And  think,  as  he  is  calling  out  to 
you  for  mercy,  think,  'At  last  my  father's 
revenge  is  wreaked  !  At  last  my  father's  spirit 
can  rest  content.  Even  now  my  father  is  in 
transports  of  delight  as  he  witnesses  this  frui 
tion  of  his  hope.  At  each  thrust  of  my  knife 
into  our  enemy's  flesh,  the  heart  of  my  father 
leaps  with  satisfaction.  At  each  scream  of  pain 
that  escapes  from  our  enemy's  throat,  the  voice 
of  my  father  waxes  great  with  joy.' 

"Ah,  my  son,  at  that  mighty  hour,  whether  I 
be  confined  in  the  bottom  fastnesses  of  hell  or 


206  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

exalted  to  the  mountain  tops  of  paradise,  I  shall 
know  what  is  happening,  I  shall  fling  myself 
upon  my  face  and  sing  a  song  of  praise  to  w 
for  the  unspeakable  rapture  which  he  has  pei- 
mitted  me  to  enjoy. 

"  My  son,  I  trust  you.  You  will  not  falter. 
You  will  remember  that  "  has  saved  you  from 
death  for  this  solitary  purpose,  that  you  have 
no  right  to  your  own  life  except  as  you  employ 
it  for  the  chastisement  of  my  foe.  I  have  no 
fear.  You  will  hate  him  with  a  hatred  equal  to 
my  own.  You  will  wreak  that  hatred  as  I 
should  have  wreaked  it,  had  my  life  been  spared. 
I  have  no  fear,  no  distrust,  and  yet — all  things 
are  possible.  My  son,  I  warn  you.  In  case  you 
be  faint-hearted,  in  case  you  recoil  from  this 
mission  you  are  charged  with,  or  in  case  by  any 
accident — though  "  will  allow  no  such  accident 
to  happen — in  case  by  any  accident  this  writing 
should  fail  to  reach  you,  I  shall  be  prepared. 
From  my  grave  I  shall  watch  over  you.  From 
my  grave  I  shall  guide  you.  From  my  grave  I 
shall  see  to  it  that  you  do  not  neglect  the  duty 
of  your  life.  Though  seas  roll  between  you 
and  him,  I  shall  see  to  it  that  you  two  meet. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  207 

X 

Though  your  heart  be  bound  to  him  as  to  your 
own  flesh  and  blood,  I  shall  see  to  it  that  you 
swerve  not.  And  if  he  be  dead,  I  shall  see  to 
it  "that  you  are  brought  face  to  face  with  his 
kindred.  Man,  woman,  or  child,  spare  neither. 
Young  or  old,  able  or  feeble-bodied,  let  it  mat 
ter  not.  In  case  your  strength  desert  you,  in 
case  your  courage  weaken,  I  shall  be  at  your 
side,  I  shall  nerve  your  arm.  If  you  hesitate, 
remember  that  my  spirit  will  possess  your  body 
and  do  what  must  be  done  in  spite  of  your 
hesitation.  There  will  be  no  escape  for  you. 
As  certainly  as  the  moon  must  follow  the 
earth,  so  certainly  will  and  must  you,  my  son, 
accomplish  the  purpose  for  which  your  life  is 
given. — But  falter  not,  as  you  cherish  the  fair 
name  of  your  mother,  as  you  honor  the  desire, 
as  you  fear  the  curse,  of  a  dying  father,  as  you 
hope  for  peace  for  your  own  soul. 

"  I  have  done.  I  think  I  have  made  every 
thing  clear.  Farewell. 

"Your  father,  ERNEST  NEUMAN. 

"  I  have  written  the  above  during  my  moments 
of  strength  for  the  last  four  days.  Now  I  have 
just  read  it  over.  I  find  that  it  but  feebly  ex- 


ao8  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

presses  all  that  I  mean  and  feel.  But  "  will 
enlighten  you  as  you  read.  It  is  enough.  I 
find  also  that  I  have  omitted  to  mention  his 
full  name.  His  name  ii  Nicholas  Pathzuol." 


xn. 

THE  emotions  that  grew  upon  me,  as  I  read 
my  father's  message,  need  not  be  detailed. 
How,  as  I  painfully  deciphered  it,  word  follow 
ing  upon  word  added  steadily  to  the  weight  of 
those  emotions,  until  at  length  it  seemed  as 
though  the  burden  was  greater  than  I  could 
bear,  I  need  not  tell.  Indeed,  so  engrossed 
had  I  become  by  what  had  gone  before,  that 
the  sense  of  the  last  line  did  not  penetrate  my 
mind.  I  leaned  back  in  my  chair  and  drew  a 
long  breath  like  one  exhausted  by  an  effort 
beyond  his  strength.  I  waited  for  the  com 
motion  of  thought  and  feeling  to  quiet  a  little. 
I  was  completely  horror-stricken  and  tired  out 
and  bewildered. 

But  by  and  by  it  occurred  to  me,  "  What  did 
he  say  the  man's  name  was  ?  "  And  languidly 
I  picked  up  the  paper  and  read  the  postscript 
for  a  second  time.  The  next  instant  I  was  on 
my  feet,  rigid,  aghast,  for  consternation.  What  J 


a  10  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

Pathzuol !  The  name  of  Veronika  !  My  head 
swam.  It  was  as  if  I  had  sustained  a  terrific 
blow  between  the  eyes.  Could  it  be  that  this 
Pathzuol,  the  man  who  had  dishonored  my 
mother,  the  man  whom  my  father  had  commis 
sioned  me  to  murder,  was  her  father  ?  the 
father  of  her  who  had  indeed  been  murdered, 
and  of  whose  murder  I  had  been  accused  ?  The 
mere  possibility  stunned  and  sickened  me.  It 
was  the  straw  that  broke  the  camel's  back.  I 
had  been  under  a  pretty  tense  nervous  strain 
ever  since  the  reception  of  Tikulski's  letter  in 
the  afternoon.  This  last  utterly  undid  me. 
My  muscles  relaxed,  my  knees  knocked  to 
gether,  the  perspiration  trickled  down  my  fore 
head.  I  went  off  into  a  regular  fit  of  weeping, 
like  a  woman. 

It  was  not  long  before  Merivale  entered.  I 
looked  up  and  saw  him  standing  over  me,  with 
a  physiognomy  divided  between  astonishment 
and  contempt. 

"  Ah,  Lexow,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  "  I 
am  surprised  at  you."  Then  his  eyes  grew 
stern,  and  he  continued  sharply,  "  Stop !  Stop 
your  crying.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed.  What- 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  211 

ever  new  misfortune  has  befallen  you,  you  have 
no  right  to  act  like  this.  It  is  a  man's  part  to 
bear  misfortune  silently.  It  is  a  school-girl's  or 
a  baby's  to  take  on  in  this  fashion.  Stop  your 
crying,  dry  your  eyes,  and  show  what  you  are 
made  of.  Grit  your  teeth  and  clench  your 
fists  and  don't  open  your  mouth  till  you  are 
ready  to  behave  like  a  reasonable  being." 

His  words  sobered  me  to  some  extent. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "  I  am  calm  now.  What  do 
you  want  ? " 

"  If  I  should  do  what  /  want,"  he  answered, 
"  you  would  not  speedily  forget  it.  I  should — 
but  never  mind  that.  What  I  want/0«  to  do 
is  to  speak  up  like  a  man  and  explain  the  oc 
casion  of  this  rumpus,  if  you  can." 

"  Here,  read  this,"  I  said,  offering  him  the 
paper. 

He  took  it,  glanced  at  it,  turned  it  this  way 
and  that,  handed  it  back.  "  How  can  I  read 
it  ?  "  he  said.  "  It's  German.  Read  it  to  me. 
— Come,  read  it  to  me,"  he  repeated,  as  I  hesi 
tated. 

I  gulped  down  my  reluctance  and  read  the 
whole  thing  through  as  rapidly  as  I  could  in 


an  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

English.  He  sat  across  the  table,  smoking  and 
drawing  figures  in  the  ash-pan  with  the  ashes 
of  his  cigarette.  Once  in  a  while  I  heard  him 
whistle  softly  to  himself.  Ke  had  thrown  his 
last  cigarette  aside  and  was  biting  his  finger 
nails  when  the  reading  drew  to  a  close. 

"  No  more  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Isn't  that  enough  ?  "  I  rejoined. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that.  Oh,  yes ;  that's 
enough  ;  and  it's  pretty  bad  too.  But  I  ex 
pected  something  worse  from  the  rough  way 
you  cut  up." 

"  Worse?  In  heaven's  name  what  could  be 
worse?  My  mother  dishonored,  my  father 
broken  hearted,  and  I  marked  out  for  a  mur 
derer,  even  from  my  cradle  ?  And  then — " 

"  I  say  it's  hard,  deucedly  hard.  But  inas 
much  as  you're  not  a  murderer,  you  know,  I 
wouldn't  let  that  side  of  the  matter  bother  me, 
if  I  were  you.  The  bad  part  of  the  business  is 
to  think  of  how  your  father's  happiness,  your 
mother's  innocence,  were  destroyed.  Think 
how  he  must  have  suffered  !  " 

"  But  you  haven't  listened,  you  haven't 
understood  the  worst,  yet.  Here,  see  his  name 
— Pathzuol." 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  fIJ 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember  ?  It  is  the  same 
name  as  hers — Veronika's — my  sweetheart's." 

"  Decidedly  !  "  exclaimed  Merivale.  "  That 
is  a  startling  coincidence,  I  admit." 

"  Couple  that  with — with  the  rest  of  my  fath- 
cr's  story  and  with — with  the — well,  with  all  the 
facts — and  I  think  you'll  confess  that  it  was 
sufficient  to  shake  me  up  a  bit.  To  come  upon 
that  name  at  the  end  of  such  a  letter,  it  was 
like  being  knocked  down.  I  lost  my  self-pos 
session.  Think  !  if  he  was  her  father!  But,  oh 
no  ;  it  isn't  credible.  It's  sheer  accident,  of 
course." 

"  Of  course  it  is.  The  letter  doesn't  say  that 
he  was  even  married.  I  suppose  there's  more 
than  one  Pathzuol  in  the  world  as  well  as  more 
than  one  Merivale.  But  all  the  same,  it's  a 
coincidence  of  a  sort  to  stir  a  fellow  up.  I 
don't  wonder  you  lost  your  balance.  Only, 
the  idea  of  boohooing  like  a  woman  !  That's 
inexcusable.  Mercy  !  what  a  good  hater  your 
father  was !  And  what  an  unspeakable  wretch, 
Nicholas ! " 

"  Yes,"  I  went  on,  "  it  gave  me  a  pretty  severe 


214  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

jolt,  the  sight  of  that  name ;  and  I  can't  seem 
to  get  over  it.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  can't 
help  feeling  as  though  there  were  more  in  this 
than  either  you  or  I  perceive,  as  though  there 
were  some  deduction  or  other  to  be  drawn  from 
it  which  is  right  within  arm's  reach  and  yet 
which  I  can't  grasp — some  horrible  corollary, 
you  know.  My  brain  is  in  a  whirl,  I — I— 

"  You  are  quite  unstrung,  as  it  is  natural  you 
should  be.  But  you  must  exert  your  reason 
and  put  the  stopper  upon  your  imagination. 
Let  deductions  and  corollaries  take  care  of 
themselves.  Confine  yourself  to  the  facts,  and 
you'll  see  that  they're  not  as  bad  as  they  might 
be,  after  all.  For  example — " 

"  But  it  is  just  the  facts  that  perplex  and 
horrify  me.  My  father  destines  me  to  be  the 
murderer  of  Nicholas  Pathzuol  or  of  his  next 
of  kin.  All  ignorant  of  this  destiny,  I  meet 
and  love  a  lady  whose  name  is  Pathzuol — a 
name  so  rare  that  I  had  never  heard  it  before, 
and  have  not  since,  except  in  this  writing 
to-day.  My  lady  is  murdered  ;  and  I,  though 
innocent,  am  suspected  and  accused  of  the 
crime.  Add  to  this  my  father's  threat  to  come 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  21$ 

back  from  the  grave  and  use  me  as  his  instru 
ment,  in  case  I  hesitate  or  in  case  I  never 
receive  his  letter;  and — well,  it  is  like  a 
problem  in  mathematics — given  this  and  that, 
to  determine  so  and  so.  No,  no,  there's  no  use 
denying  it,  this  strange  combination  of  facts 
must  have  some  awful  meaning.  It  seems  as 
though  each  minute  I  was  just  on  the  point  of 
catching  it,  and  then  as  I  tighten  my  fingers 
around  it,  it  escapes  again  and  eludes  me." 

"  Nonsense,  man.  You  are  yielding  to  your 
fancy,  like  a  child  who,  because  he  feels  op 
pressed  in  the  dark,  conjures  up  ghosts  and 
goblins,  and  can  not  be  persuaded  that  there 
are  none  about,  till  you  light  the  gas  and  show 
him  that  the  room  is  empty.  Come,  light  the 
gas  of  your  common  sense  !  Recognize  that 
your  problem  has  no  solution,  none  because  it 
is  not  a  true  problem,  but  merely  a  fortuitous 
arrangement  of  circumstances  which  chances 
to  bear  a  superficial  resemblance  to  one. 
Reduce  your  quasi  problem  to  its  simplest 
terms:  thus,  given  x  and y  and  z,  to  find  the 
value  of  b.  Don't  you  see  that  there's  no  con 
nection  ?  " 


2l6  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

11  Oh,  of  course,  I  acknowledge  that  I  can't 
see  any  connection.  That's  just  the  trouble.  I 
feel  that  there  must  be  a  connection — one  that 
I  can't  see.  If  I  could  only  see  it,  it  wouldn't 
be  so  bad.  But  this  perplexity,  this " 

"  This  fiddle-stick !  You  are  resolved  to  dis 
tress  yourself,  and  I  suppose  it's  useless  for  me 
to  labor  with  you.  Only  this  much  I  will  say, 
that  if  you  should  bestow  a  little  of  the  energy 
you  are  expending  in  the  effort  to  catch  hold 
of  a  non-existent  inference,  upon  sympathy 
with  your  father's  unhappiness,  I  should  have 
more  respect  for  you.  They  talk  about  suffer 
ing  ennobling  and  chastening  men,  forsooth  ! 
So  far  as  you  are  concerned,  suffering  has  done 
nothing  but  intensify  your  natural  egotism. 
For  instance,  after  reading  that  letter  of  your 
father's,  the  first  idea  that  strikes  you  is,  '  How 
does  it  affect  me,  how  am  /  concerned  by  it  ?' 
whereas  the  spectacle  of  your  father's  immense 
grief  ought  to  have  absorbed  you  to  the  exclu 
sion  of  every  thing  else,  ought  to  have  left  no 
room  in  your  mind  for  any  other  thought." 

But  for  all  Merivale  could  say  by  way  either 
of  appeal  or  of  reprimand,  I  was  powerless  to 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  tl? 

subdue  that  feeling  which  had  begun  to  stir  in 
my  breast.  I  recognized  that  I  was  unreason 
able  and  selfish,  but  I  was  also  helpless.  I 
could  not  get  over  the  shock  I  had  sustained 
when  Pathzuol's  name  first  took  shape  before 
my  eyes.  Every  time  I  remembered  that 
moment — and  it  kept  recurring  to  me  in  spite  of 
myself — my  heart  sank  and  my  breath  became 
spasmodic,  as  if  I  had  been  confronted  by  a 
ghost.  And  then  ensued  that  sensation  of 
groping  in  the  dark  after  something  invisible, 
unknown,  yet  surely  there,  hovering  within 
arm's  reach,  but  as  elusive  as  a  will-o'-the-wisp. 
I  struggled  with  this  sensation,  tried  my  utmost 
to  shake  it  off,  but  it  sat  like  a  monster  on  my 
heart.  Its  weight  was  deadly,  its  touch  was 
icy ;  it  would  not  be  dislodged. 

"  It  is  true,  all  that  you  say,  Merivale,"  I 
returned  at  length.  "  But  the  question  is  not 
one  of  what  I  ought  to  do  ;  it  is  one  of  what  I 
can  do.  I  know  I  ought  to  regard  this  matter 
in  the  same  collected  spirit  that  you  display ; 
but  it  concerns  me  so  intimately,  you  see,  that 
I  can't  resist  being  somewhat  perturbed.  My 
wits,  so  to  speak,  have  been  scattered  by  an 


2l8  AS  JT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

unexpected  blow.  I  shan't  be  able  to  emulate 
your  sang-froid  until  they  have  got  back  to 
their  proper  places.  I'm  so  heated  and  upset 
that  I  don't  really  know  what  I  think  or  what 
I  feel.  I  guess  perhaps  I'd  better  go  for  a 
walk  and  cool  off,  and  arrive  at  an  under 
standing  with  myself." 

"  The  very  worst  thing  you  could  possibly 
do — go  away  by  yourself  and  brood  and  get 
more  and  more  morbid  every  minute.  What 
you  want  is  to  think  of  something  else  for  a 
while,  and  then  when  you  come  back  to  this 
subject  you'll  be  in  a  condition  to  regard  it  in 
its  correct  light.  Let's — let's  play  a  game  of 
cribbage,  or  read  some  Rossetti;  or  suppose 
you  fiddle  a  little?  " 

"  No,  I  feel  the  need  of  air  and  exercise. 
I'll  go  out  and  take  a  walk.  I  sha'n't  brood, 
I'll  reflect  on  the  sensible  things  you've  said. 
Good-by." 

I  walked  briskly  through  the  streets,  striving 
to  collect  my  faculties,  striving  to  regain  suffi 
cient  mental  tranquillity  to  comprehend  exactly 
what  the  long  and  short  of  the  whole  business 
was.  But  the  feeling  that  there  was  something 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  3x9 

more  in  it  than  I  could  make  out,  intensified. 
It  would  not  be  dispelled.  The  oftener  I  went 
over  the  circumstances,  the  more  significant 
they  seemed. — Significant  of  what?  Precisely 
the  question  that  I  could  not  answer.  The 
longer  I  allowed  my  mind  to  dwell  upon  them, 
the  more  acute  became  that  sensation  of  wrest 
ling  with  a  problem,  of  groping  for  a  something 
suspended  near  to  me  in  the  dark.  My  father 
had  destined  me  to  be  a  murderer;  the  name 
of  my  intended  victim  was  Pathzuol ;  I  had 
been  engaged  to  a  young  lady  of  the  same  name, 
very  possibly  the  daughter  of  my  father's  foe  ; 
she  had  indeed  been  murdered,  though  not  by 
my  hand  ;  and  yet  I,  despite  my  innocence,  had 
been  deemed  guilty  of  the  crime :  this  chain  of 
facts  kept  passing  over  and  over  before  me. 
I  felt  that  it  must  mean  something ;  it  could 
not  be  purely  fortuitous  ;  there  was  a  break,  a 
missing  link,  which,  if  I  could  but  supply  it, 
would  make  the  hidden  meaning  clear.  I 
walked  the  streets  all  night,  unable  to  fix  my 
thoughts  on  any  thing  else.  I  said,  "You  are 
merely  wearing  yourself  out  and  getting  your 
brains  into  a  tangle  :  try  to  divert  your  atten- 


»ao  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

tion.  Count  up  to  a  thousand.  See  how 
much  you  can  remember  of  the  Moonlight 
Sonata.  Conjugate  a  Hebrew  verb.  Do  what 
you  will,  only  stop  puzzling  over  this  matter. 
As  Merivale  says,  when  you  have  thought  of 
something  else  for  a  while,  you  will  be  in  a 
condition  to  return  to  it  with  refreshed  intelli 
gence,  and  view  it  in  the  right  light."  But  the 
next  moment  I  was  at  it  again,  in  greater  per 
plexity  than  ever.  Of  course,  I  succeeded  in 
working  myself  up  to  a  high  degree  of  nervous 
ness  :  was  as  exhausted  and  as  exasperated  as 
though  I  had  spent  an  hour  in  futile  attempts 
to  thread  a  needle. 

But  now  it  began  to  get  light.  The  stillness 
of  the  night  was  broken,  my  solitude  was  dis 
turbed.  Hosts  of  sparrows  began  to  congregate 
upon  the  window  sills,  and  their  busy  twittering 
filled  the  air.  First  one  steam-whistle  blew  in 
the  distance,  then  another  nearer  by,  then 
another,  and  finally  a  chorus  of  them  :  bells 
began  to  ring,  wagons  rattled  over  the  pave 
ment,  the  shrill  whoo-hoop  of  the  milk-man  re 
sounded  through  the  streets.  The  clatter  of 
footsteps  became  audible  upon  the  sidewalk. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  3*1 

People  began  to  walk  abroad.  The  sky  turned 
from  black  to  gray,  from  gray  to  blue.  Shutters 
were  banged,  doors  slammed,  windows  thrown 
open  :  housemaids  with  brooms  and  buckets 
appeared  upon  the  stoops.  Dawn  had  arrived 
from  across  the  Ocean  with  the  smell  of  the 
sea-breeze  still  clinging  to  her  skirts.  The  city 
was  waking  to  its  feverish  multifarious  life. — 
And  the  result  was  that  I  forgot  myself- — was 
penetrated  and  exalted  by  that  vague  tremulous 
exhilaration  which  always  accompanies  the  first 
breath  of  morning.  I  expanded  my  lungs  and 
inhaled  the  fresh  air  and  felt  a  glow  of  warmth 
and  animation  shoot  through  my  limbs. 

"  Ah,"  I  cried,  "  a  truce  to  the  blue  devils!  I 
will  go  home  and  take  up  my  regular  life  again, 
just  as  though  this  interruption  had  not 
occurred." 

I  hurried  back  to  our  lodgings.  Merivale 
was  already  up  and  dressed,  smoking  a  cigarette 
over  the  newspaper. 

"Hail!"  I  exclaimed.  "lam  glad  to  see 
you  out  of  bed  so  early !  " 

"  I  have  not  been  abed  since  you  left,"  he 
answered. 


»22  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"Why  not?     What  have  you  been  doing?" 

"  Thinking  about  you — about  what  can  be 
done  to  make  a  man  of  you." 

."  Oh,  you  needn't  worry  about  that.  I'm  all 
right  now.  I  sha'n't  play  the  fool  again,  I 
promise  you.  I  propose  that  we  sink  the  last 
four-and-twenty  hours  into  eternal  oblivion. 
What  do  you  say?  " 

"  Nothing  would  more  delight  me." 

"  Good !  Let's  begin  at  the  first  cause. 
Where's  the  manuscript  ?  We'll  set  fire  to  it, 
and  agree  to  believe  that  it  never  really  ex 
isted." 

"  No,"  said  Merivale,  "  I  wouldn't  set  fire  to 
it — at  least  not  till  it  is  manifest  whether  your 
present  mood  is  merely  a  reaction  from  your 
late  one,  or  whether  it  is  going  to  last.  I  will 
dispose  of  the  manuscript — see." 

He  found  it  on  the  table,  opened  the  double 
cover  of  the  box,  restored  the  papers  to  the 
place  they  had  occupied  formerly,  and  locked 
the  box  up  in  the  closet  of  his  writing-desk. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  that's  the  best  thing  to 
do.  I'll  take  care  of  it.  Some  day  you  may 
have  a  little  sympathy  to  waste  on  your  father, 


AS  IT  IV AS  WRITTEN.  223 

and  then  you'll  be  glad  this  writing  was  not  de 
stroyed." 

We  had  breakfast,  and  after  the  cups  and 
saucers  were  cleared  away,  applied  ourselves  to 
our  ordinary  forenoon  occupation.  It  turned 
out  indeed  that  my  good  spirits  were,  as  Meri- 
vale  had  suspected,  to  some  extent  reactionary : 
but  they  left  me  sober  rather  than  sad.  I 
was  absent-minded  and  committed  numberless 
blunders  while  my  friend  dictated  his  poems : 
but  I  did  not  let  my  thoughts  settle  down  again 
upon  the  matters  that  had  engaged  them  dur 
ing  the  night.  They  simply  wandered  about 
in  a  random  way  from  one  indifferent  topic  to 
another,  as  it  is  the  habit  of  thoughts  to  do 
when  the  thinker  has  not  had  his  customary 
allotment  of  sleep.  Presently  Merivale  sus 
pended  his  dictation,  and  I  waited  passively  for 
him  to  resume,  supposing  that  he  had  reached 
a  point  where  reflection  was  necessary  to  fur 
ther  progress.  His  silence  continued.  Pretty 
soon  my  eyelids  dropped  like,  leaden  curtains 
over  my  eyes,  and  my  chin  sank  upon  my  breast. 
I  was  actually  nodding.  I  started  up  and 
pinched  myself,  ashamed  of  appearing  drowsy. 


224  A  SIT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

Lo  !  I  perceived  that  my  friend  had  met  with 
the  same  mishap.  He  too  was  nodding  in  his 
chair.  For  a  moment  we  eyed  each  other 
sheepishly,  each  endeavoring  to  feign  wide 
wakefulness.  Then  Merivale  rose  and  stretched 
himself  and  laughed. 

"  For  my  part  I  cast  off  the  mask,"  he  cried. 
"  I  am  sleepy  and  I  am  going  to  bed.  You'd 
better  follow  suit." 

I  needed  no  urging.  We  retired  to  our  dor 
mitory,  and  as  speedily  as  was  practicable  one 
of  us  at  least  fell  into  an  unfathomable  slum 
ber. 


XIII. 

1  DON'T  know  how  many  hours  afterward  I 
awoke.  Gradually,  as  consciousness  as- 
serted  itself,  I  realized  that  somebody  was  play 
ing  a  violin  in  the  adjacent  room :  and  at 
length  it  struck  me  that  it  must  be  Merivale 
practicing.  I  pricked  up  my  ears  and  hearkened. 
Oh,  yes  ;  he  was  running  over  his  part  of  the 
last  new  composition  we  had  studied.  The 
clock-like  tick-tack  of  his  metronome  marked 
the  rhythm.  I  lay  still  and  listened  till  he  had 
repeated  the  same  phrase  some  twenty  times. 
Finally  I  got  up  and  crossed  the  threshold  that 
divided  us. 

Merivale  kept  on  playing  for  a  minute  or  two, 
unaware  of  my  intrusion.  Not  till  it  behooved 
him  to  turn  the  page  did  he  lift  his  eyes.  Then, 
encountering  my  night-robed  figure,  they  lighted 
up  with  merriment.  Their  owner  lowered  his  in 
strument,  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  in  the 

15 


226  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  ' 

end  gave  vent  to  an  uproarious  peal  of  laugh 
ter. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  "  I  stammered. 

When  he  had  got  his  hilarity  somewhat  un 
der  control  he  replied  :  "  At  you.  Come  and 
gaze  upon  yourself."  And  conducting  me  to  a 
mirror  he  said,  pointing,  '  There,  isn't  that  a 
funny  sight?" 

I  looked  sleepy,  that  was  all.  My  hair  was 
awry,  and  my  eyes  were  heavy,  and  my  cos 
tume  was  a  trifle  wrinkled.  Still,  I  suppose, 
my  general  appearance  was  sufficiently  ludi 
crous.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  could  not  help  join 
ing  in  Merivale's  laughter :  and,  thus  put  into 
good  humor  at  the  outset,  I  cheerfully  com 
plied  with  his  request  to  hasten  through  my 
toilet  and  "  come  and  fiddle  with  him." 

"  Let's  start  here,"  he  said,  opening  the  book, 

We  read  for  a  while  in  concert.  As  usual 
my  arm  seemed  to  swing  of  its  separate  will,  I 
myself  becoming  all  but  comatose.  By  and  by 
I  perceived  that  Merivale  had  discontinued  and 
was  seated  at  one  side  with  his  instrument 
upon  his  knees.  Then  I  perceived  that  I  was 
no  longer  following  the  book.  I  closed  my 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  »*J 

eyes  and  listened.  As  usual  I  heard  the  voice 
of  my  violin  very  much  as  though  some  other 
person  had  been  the  performer. 

I  found  that  I  was  playing  a  lot  of  bits  from 
memory.  I  heard  the  light,  quick  tread  of  a 
gavotte  which  I  had  learned  as  a  boy  and  mean 
time  almost  forgotten  ;  I  heard  snatches  from 
the  chants  the  Chazzan  sings  in  the  synagogue  ;• 
I  heard  the  Flower  Song  from  Faust  mixing 
itself  up  with  a  recitative  from  Lohengrin. 
Then  I  heard  the  passionate  wail  of  Chopin 
become  predominant :  the  exquisite  melody  of 
the  Berceuse,  motives  from  Les  Polonaises,  and  at 
length  the  impromptu  in  f-sharp  minor — that  to 
which  I  have  alluded  in  the  early  part  of  this 
narrative,  as  descriptive  of  Veronika.  Follow 
ing  it,  came  the  songs  that  Veronika  herself 
had  been  most  prone  to  sing,  Bizet,  Pergolese, 
Schumann,  morsels  of  German  folk  liede,  old 
French  romances.  And  ever  and  anon  that 
phrase  from  the  impromptu  kept  recurring. 
Every  thing  else  seemed  to  lead  up  to  it.  It 
terminated  a  brilliant  passage  by  Liszt.  It 
cropped  out  in  the  middle  of  a  theme  from  the 
Meistersinger.  And  with  its  every  new  recur- 


2*8  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

rcncc,  the  picture  of  Veronika  which  it  pre 
sented  to  my  imagination  grew  more  life-like 
and  palpable,  until  ere  long  it  was  almost  as 
though  I  saw  her  standing  near  me  in  substan 
tial  objective  form.  As  I  have  said,  I  scarcely 
realized  that  it  was  I  who  played.  Except  for 
the  sensation  along  my  wrist  as  the  bow  bit  the 
catgut,  I  believe  I  should  have  quite  forgotten 
it.  But  now  abruptly,  without  the  least  voli 
tion  upon  my  part,  my  arm  acquired  a  fresh 
vigor.  The  voice  of  my  violin  increased  in 
volume.  The  character  of  the  music  under- 
went  a  change.  From  a  medley  of  fragments 
it  turned  to  a  coherent,  continuous  whole, 
Note  succeeded  note  in  natural  and  inevitable 
sequence.  I  tried  to  recognize  the  composi 
tion.  I  could  not.  It  was  quite  unfamiliar  to 
me.  Odd,  because  of  course  at  some  time  I 
must  have  practiced  it  again  and  again.  Other 
wise  how  had  I  been  able  to  play  it  now  ?  It 
flowed  from  the  strings  without  hitch  or  hesi 
tancy.  Yet  my  best  efforts  to  place  it  were 
ineffectual.  Doubly  odd,  because  it  was  no 
ordinary  composition.  It  had  a  striking  indi 
viduality  of  its  own. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  a 29 

It  began  with  laughter-provoking  scherzo,  as 
dainty  as  the  pattering  of  April  rain-drops,  as 
riotous  as  the  frolicking  of  children  let  loose 
from  school ;  which,  by  degrees  tempering  to  a 
quieter  allegro,  presently  modulated  into  the 
minor,  and  necessarily,  therefore,  became  plain 
tive  and  sentimental.  For  a  while  bar  succeeded 
bar,  fitful  and  undetermined,  as  if  groping 
blindly  for  a  climax.  Next,  a  quick,  fluttering 
crescendo,  and  an  exultant  major  chord.  This 
completed  the  first  movement.  The  second 
began  pianissimo  upon  the  A  and  E  strings,  an 
allegretto  full  of  placid  contentment ;  again,  a 
minor  modulation ;  again,  blind  groping  for  a 
climax,  this  time  more  strenuous  than  before, 
tinged  by  a  passion,  impelled  by  an  insatiable 
desire  ;  adagio  on  G  and  D,  still  minor ;  then  a 
iwift  return  to  major,  a  leap  of  the  bow  and 
fingers  back  to  A  and  £,  and  on  these  latter 
strings  a  rhapsody  expressive  of  the  utmost  pos 
sible  human  joy.  Third  movement  andante, 
sober  but  still  joyous  ;  the  music,  which  hither 
to  had  been  restless  and  destitute  of  an  appar 
ent  aim,  seemed  to  have  caught  a  purpose,  to 
have  gained  substance  and  confidence  in  itself. 


230  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN, 

It  proceeded  in  this  wise  for  several  periods, 
when  sharply,  without  the  faintest  warning,  it 
broke  into  a  discordant  shriek  of  laughter,  the 
laughter  of  a  demon  whose  evil  designs  had 
triumphed. 

Though  I  had  not  recognized  the  composi 
tion,  up  to  this  point  I  had  understood  it  per 
fectly.  Its  intrinsic  lucidity  carried  the  intelli 
gence  along.  But  henceforward  I  was  mystified. 
The  reason  for  the  violent  change  of  theme, 
time,  and  quality,  I  could  not  divine  ;  nor  could 
I  appreciate,  either,  how  the  subsequent  effects 
were  produced  or  what  they  were  meant  to  sig 
nify.  My  impression  was,  as  I  have  said,  that 
the  laughter  which  my  violin  seemed  to  be 
echoing  was  demoniac  laughter,  the  outburst 
of  a  Satan  over  his  success,  of  a  Succubus  fasten 
ing  upon  his  prey.  Yet  the  next  instant  I  was 
doubtful  whether  it  was  indeed  laughter  at  all  ? 
Was  it  not  perhaps  the  hysterical  sobbing  of  a 
human  being  frenzied  by  grief?  And  again 
the  next  instant  neither  of  these  conceptions 
appeared  to  be  the  correct  one.  Was  it  not 
rather  a  chorus  ? — a  chorus  of  witches  ? — plot 
ting  some  fiendish  atrocity  ? — chuckling  over  a 


AS  IT  W 'AS  WRITTEN.  231 

vicious  pleasantry? — now,  whispering  amicably 
together,  now  wrangling  ferociously,  now  unit 
ing  in  blood-curdling  screams  of  delight  ? 
Whatever  it  might  be,  I  could  not  penetrate  its 
sense.  I  listened  with  deepening  perplexity.  I 
wished  it  would  come  to  an  end.  But  it  did 
not  occur  to  me  to  stop  my  arm  and  lay  aside 
my  bow.  The  music  went  on  and  on — until 
Merivale  caught  me  by  the  shoulder  and 
snatched  my  violin  from  my  grasp.  He  was 
speaking. 

The  descent  back  to  earth  was  too  abrupt. 
It  took  me  some  time  to  gather  myself  together. 
"Eh — what  were  you  saying?"  I  asked  at 
last. 

"  I  was  saying,  stop  !  Consider  a  fellow's 
nervous  system.  Where  in  the  name  of  Lucifer 
did  you  learn  that  infernal  music  ?  Whom  is 
it  by  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  I  answered,  "  oh,  I  don't  know  whom 
it  is  by." 

"It  out-Berliozes  Berlioz,"  he  added.  "  Is  it 
his  ?  " 

"  Perhaps.  I  don't  remember.  I  am  tired. 
Let  me  rest  a  moment  without  talking." 


*3*  ^£  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "it  was  a  terrible 
strain  to  listen  to  it.  I  am  quite  played  out — 
feel  as  if — forgive  the  comparison — as  if  I  had 
spent  the  last  hour  in  a  dentist's  chair.  How- 
ever,  for  relief's  sake,  let's  go  to  dinner.  Are 
you  aware  that  we  haven't  eaten  any  thing 
since  early  morning?" 

After  dinner  Merivale  insisted  that  we  should 
take  a  long  walk  "to  shake  out  the  kinks,"  and 
after  the  long  walk  we  were  tired  enough  to 
return  to  our  pillows. 

I  went  straight  to  sleep  ;  but  my  sleep  was 
troubled.  As  soon  as  Merivale  had  said  good 
night  and  extinguished  the  gas,  memory  began 
to  repeat  the  music  I  had  played.  I  heard  it 
throughout  my  sleep.  Every  little  while  I 
would  wake  up  and  try  to  banish  it  by  fixing 
my  attention  on  other  matters.  But  it  kept 
thrumming  away  in  my  brain  despite  myself. 
T  could  not  silence  it.  Merivale's  reference  to 
a  dentist's  chair  was,  if  inelegant,  at  least  a 
graphic  one.  I  got  as  hopelessly  irritated  as  I 
could  have  done  with  a  score  of  dentists  simul 
taneously  grinding  at  my  teeth.  My  very 
arteries  seemed  to  be  beating  to  its  rhythm. 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  $33 

In  one  fit  of  wakefulness,  that  lasted  longer 
than  its  predecessors  had  done,  I  found  myself 
unconsciously  tattooing  it  upon  the  wall  at  my 
bed's  head. 

"  Is  that  you  ?  "  Merivale's  voice  demanded 
from  out  of  the  darkness. 

"Yes,"  I  replied.     ''Aren't  you  asleep?  " 

"  Mercy,  no.  That  music  you  played — or 
rather,  stray  fragments  of  it,  keep  running 
through  my  brain.  I  haven't  been  able  to 
sleep  for  a  long  while." 

"  That's  singular.  It  affects  me  the  same 
way.  I  was  just  drumming  it  on  the  wall.  I've 
been  trying  to  get  rid  of  it  all  night." 

"  It  has  wonderful  staying  powers,  for  a  fact. 
I'm  glad  you're  awake,  though.  Companion 
ship  in  misery  is  sweet." 

"Yes,  I  also  feel  rather  more  comfortable 
now  that  you  have  spoken.  Do  you  know,  it's 
an  immense  puzzle  to  me, that  music?  I  can't 
imagine  where  or  when  I  ever  learned  it.  And 
yet  it  is  not  the  sort  of  thing  one  would  be  apt 
to  forget.  I  can't  recognize  the  style  even, 
can't  get  a  clew  to  the  composer." 

"  The  style  is  emphatically  that  of  Berlioz." 


234  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"  Perhaps  so.  But  it  can't  be  by  Berlioz, 
because  I  never  learned  any  thing  by  Berlioz 
at  all." 

"  Hum  !  "  A  pause.  Then,  "  Say,  Lexow — " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  possible  that  it's  original,  is  it  ?  " 

"Original?     How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Why,  an  improvisation — a  little  thing  of 
your  own." 

"  Oh,  no ;  oh,  no,  I  never  improvise — at  least 
an  entire  composition,  like  that.  Nobody 
does.  It  bears  all  the  marks  of  careful  work 
manship.  It  must  be  something  well-known 
that  has  temporarily  slipped  from  my  memory. 
It's  too  striking  not  to  be  well-known.  To 
morrow  I'll  go  through  my  music  and  find  it; 
and  I'll  wager  it  will  turn  out  to  be  quite  famil 
iar.  Only,  it's  extremely  odd  that  I  can't  place 
it." 

"Why  wait  till  to-morrow?" 

"  Why,  we  can't  begin  to-night,  can  we  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  I  say,  let's  begin  right  off. 
The  cursed  thing  is  keeping  us  awake,  and  there 
doesn't  seem  to  be  any  escape  from  it.  We 
may  as  well  utilize  our  wakefulness,  as  lie  here 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  235 

doing  nothing  but  toss  about.  I  say,  let's 
light  the  gas  and  go  to  work." 

"  Oh,  well,  I'm  agreeable.  The  sooner  the 
better  as  far  as  I'm  concerned." 

"  Good,"  cried  Merivale. 

He  sprang  out  of  bed  and  lighted  the  gas. 

"  Shall  Mahomet  go  to  the  mountain  or  shall 
the  mountain  come  to  Mahomet  ?  "  he  inquired, 
blinking  his  eyes. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  shall  we  dress  and  adjourn  to  the 
other  room  ?  Or  shall  I  bring  your  musical 
library  in  here,  so  that  we  can  conduct  our 
investigation  without  getting  up  ?  " 

"Just  as  you  please,"  I  answered. 

"Well,  we'll  move  the  mountain,  then,"  he 
said,  and  left  the  room. 

He  made  two  or  three  trips,  back  and  forth, 
bearing  an  armful  of  music  as  the  fruit  of  each. 
The  last  folios  deposited  on  the  floor,  "  Now, 
as  to  method,"  he  inquired,  "how  shall  we 
start?  It  will  occupy  us  till  doom's-day  if  we 
undertake  to  go  through  the  whole  of  this.  I 
suppose  there  are  some  composers  we  can 
eliminate  b  priori,  eh  ?" 


236  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  Beethoven,  Mendelssohn,  Wagner, 
Liszt,  in  particular,  we  needn't  trouble  with, 
I'd  keep  an  especially  sharp  eye  out  for  Ruben- 
stein  and  Dvorak  and  Winiauski.  It's  fortunate 
that  I've  preserved  all  the  music  I've  ever 
owned.  We  can't  miss  it  if  we're  only  patient 
enough." 

"Well,  here  goes,"  he  cried,  thrusting  a  thick 
pile  of  music  into  my  hands,  and  apportioning 
an  equal  amount  to  himself. 

We  were  industrious.  It  is  needless  that  I 
should  tarry  with  the  incidents  of  our  search. 
At  daybreak  we  had  not  yet  quite  finished,  and 
we  had  not  yet  struck  any  thing  that  bore  the 
slightest  resemblance  to  the  composition  in 
question. 

"  But  little  remains,"  said  Merivale.  "  In 
another  five  minutes  we  will  have  found  it ;  or 
my  first  hypothesis  was  true." 

"Your  first  hypothesis?"  I  inquired. 

"  Yes — that  it  was  original — a  lucubration  of 
your  own." 

"Oh,  that,  I  tell  you, isn't  possible.  I'm  not 
vain  enough  to  imagine  that  I  could  improvise 
in  such  style,  thank  you." 


AS  IT  WAS   WRITTEN.  237 

"  Well,  we  won't  enter  into  a  dispute,  at  any 
rate  not  till  our  preseitt  line  of  investigation  is 
exhausted.  Back  to  the  saddle  !  " 

For  a  space  we  were  silent. 

"  Eh  bien,  mon  brave!"  cried  Merivale  at 
length.  "  There  goes  the  last  of  my  half,"  and 
he  sent  a  sheet  of  music  fluttering  through  the 
air. 

"  And  here  is  the  last  of  mine,"  I  responded, 
laying  down  Schumann's  VVarum. 

"  And  we  are  still  in  the  dark." 

"  Still  in  the  dark." 

"  It  isn't  possible  that  we  have  overlooked 
it?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  haven't.  I  took  pains  with  each 
separate  page.  " 

"  Likewise,  I !  Therefore  I  congratulate 
you.  I'll  order  a  laurel  wreath  at  the  florist's, 
the  first  thing  after  breakfast." 

"Nonsense!  How  many  times  need  I  tell 
you  that  I  could  not  by  hook  or  :rook  have 
made  it  up  as  I  went  along  ?  The  mere  notion 
is  ridiculous.  It  must  have  got  lost,  that's 
all." 

"  On  the  contrary,  the  notion  that  you  once 


238  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

learned  it,  then  forgot  it,  then  played  it  off 
without  a  fault  from  beginning  to  end,  is 
trebly  ridiculous.  It  was  ridiculous  of  us  to 
waste  our  time  hunting  for  it,  also.  I  am  en 
tirely  convinced  that  it  is  yours.  Why  not  ? 
Ideas  have  come  to  other  people — why  not  to 
you  ?  Yesterday  while  you  played,  you  were 
excited  and  wrought  up,  and  the  result  was 
that  you  had  an  inspiration.  By  Jove,  you're 
lucky!  It's  enough  to  make  you  famous." 

"But,  Merivale,  fancy  the  absurdities  you  are 
uttering.  Do  you  seriously  suppose  anybody — 
even  a  regular  composer — could  take  up  his 
fiddle  and  reel  off  a  complicated  thing  like  that 
without  once  halting  ?  Why,  man,  there  are 
four  or  five  distinct  movements.  You  might  as 
well  pretend  that  a  mere  elocutionist  could 
write  an  intricate  epic  poem  without  once 
pausing  to  make  an  erasure  or  find  a  rhyme,  as 
that  I,  a  simple  instrumentalist,  could  have 
done  this." 

"  Well,  there's  only  one  way  of  settling  the 
matter.  We'll  refer  it  to  an  authority.  You 
jot  down  a  few  specimen  bars  on  paper,  and 
I'll  submit  it  to  your  friend,  Dr.  Rodolph.  Of 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  *39 

course  he  will  identify  it  at  once,  if  it  isn't 
yours." 

"  If  that  will  satisfy  you,  well  and  good,"  I 
assented. 

In  the  course  of  the  forenoon,  Merivale,  hav 
ing  procured  a  stock  of  music-paper  at  a  shop 
in  the  neighborhood,  said,  "  I  don't  know  how 
rapidly  a  man  can  write  music,  but  if  it  isn't  too 
slow  work,  I'd  seriously  counsel  you  to  put 
down  the  whole  thing,  while  you're  about  it.  In 
fact  I'd  counsel  you  to  do  so  any  how.  If  by 
hazard  it  is  original,  you  know,  you'd  bet 
ter  make  a  memorandum  of  it  while  it's  still 
fresh  in  your  mind.  Otherwise  you  might  for 
get  it.  That  often  happens  to  me.  A  bright 
idea,  a  felicitous  turn  of  phraseology,  occurs 
to  me  when  I'm  away  somewhere — in  the  horse- 
cars,  at  the  theater,  paying  a  call,  or  what-not 
— and  if  I  don't  make  an  instant  minute  of  it 
in  my  note-book,  it's  sure  to  fly  off  and  never  be 
heard  from  again." 

"We'll  see,"  I  returned.  "I  haven't  written 
a  bar  of  music  for  such  a  long  while  that  I 
don't  know  how  hard  I  shall  find  it.  But  I 
used  to  make  a  daily  practice  of  writing  from 


340  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

memory,  because  it  increases  one's  facility  for 
sight-reading." 

I  hummed  the  first  two  or  three  phrases 
softly  to  myself,  beating  time  with  my  fingers  ; 
then  drew  up  to  the  writing-table  and  com 
menced  to  set  them  down.  At  the  outset  I 
had  considerable  difficulty,  was  obliged,  so  to 
speak,  to  spell  my  way  along  note  by  note,  and 
committed  several  blunders  which  I  had  to  go 
back  to  and  correct.  But  gradually  my  path 
grew  smoother  and  smoother,  until  I  was  no 
longer  conscious  of  effort ;  and  at  last  I  became 
so  much  absorbed  and  so  much  interested  by 
what  I  was  doing,  that  my  hand  sped  across 
the  paper  like  a  machine  performing  the  regu 
lar  function  for  which  it  was  contrived.  I 
suppose  mental  activity  always  begets  mental 
exhilaration  ;  and  that  mental  exhilaration  in 
turn,  when  allowed  to  attain  too  high  a  pitch, 
always  approaches  the  borderland  of  its 
antipode,  on  the  principle  that  extremes  meet. 
At  any  rate  such  was  my  experience  in  the 
present  instance.  At  first,  both  mind  and 
fingers  were  sluggish  and  moved  laboriously. 
Then  mind  got  into  running  order,  and  fingers 


AS  IT  IV AS  WRITTEN.  241 

lagged  behind  ;  then  fingers  caught  up  with 
mind,  and  for  a  while  the  two  kept  pace ;  then, 
finally,  fingers  spurted  ahead  and  it  was  mind's 
turn  to  acknowledge  itself  left  in  the  rear. 
Mental  exhilaration  gave  place  to  bewilderment, 
as  I  saw  that  my  hand  was  forging  along  faster 
than  my  thought  could  dictate,  in  apparent 
obedience  to  an  independent  will  of  its  own — 
which  bewilderment  ripened  into  thorough 
going  mystification,  as  the  hand  dashed  forward 
and  back  like  a  shuttle  in  a  loom,  with  a  velocity 
that  seemed  ever  to  be  increasing.  I  had  pre 
cisely  the  sensation  of  a  man  who  has  started 
to  run  down  a  hill,  and  whose  legs  have 
acquired  such  a  momentum  that  he  can  not  stop 
them :  on  and  on  he  must  submit  to  be  borne 
until  some  outside  obstacle  interferes,  even 
though  a  yawning  chasm  await  him  at  the 
bottom.  Toward  the  end  I  scarcely  saw  the 
paper  on  which  I  was  writing  ;  I  am  sure  I  saw 
nothing  of  the  matter  that  I  wrote.  I  said  to 
myself,  "Of  course  you  will  find  that  all  this 
stuff  is  incoherent  and  meaningless  when  you 
get  through."  But  I  waited  passively  till  my 

hand  should  get  through  of  its  own  accord,  I 
16 


242  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

made  no  endeavor  to  draw  the  rein  upon  it. 
Eventually  it  came  to  a  standstill  with  a  round 
turn.  I  was  quite  winded.  I  needed  leisure  in 
which  to  recover  my  equilibrium. 

Merivale — of  whose  presence  I  had  become 
oblivious — crossed  over  and  began  gathering 
the  scattered  sheets  of  paper  from  the  table. 
The  sight  of  him  helped  to  bring  me  to 
myself. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "there  it  is.  I  don't  sup 
pose  you  can  read  it.  I  got  so  excited  I  hardly 
knew  what  I  was  about." 

"  That's  all  right,"  he  answered  reassuringly. 
"  I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  trouble 
you've  taken.  But  what,"  he  added  abruptly, 
"  but  what  is  all  this  that  you  have  written  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  do  you  fancy  ?  The  music,  of 
course,  that  you  asked  me  to." 

"  No,  no ;  I  mean  this  writing,  this  text,  with 
which  you  have  wound  up  ?  " 

"Writing?  Text?  What  are  you  driving 
at?" 

"  Why,  here — this,"  he  said  handing  me  the 
paper. 

"  Mercy  upon  me !  "  I  exclaimed,  thoroughly 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  243 

amazed,  "  I  was  not  aware  that  I  had  written 
any  thing." 

The  last  half  dozen  pages  were  covered 
with  written  words — blotted,  scrawling,  scarcely 
decipherable,  but  unmistakably  written  words. 

"  Well,  certainly,  this  is  most  astonishing. 
Whatever  it  is,  I  have  written  it  unawares." 

I  dropped  the  manuscript  and  leaned  back 
in  my  chair,  dumbfounded  by  this  latest  devel 
opment. 

"  Here,"  said  Merivale,  "  is  the  point  where 
the  music  ends  and  the  words  begin." 

The  music  ended,  the  words  began,  just  at 
that  point  where  last  night  the  shriek  of  malevo 
lent  laughter  had  interfered  with  the  current  of 
melody.  From  that  point  to  the  bottom  of  the 
last  page  not  another  bar  of  music  was  dis 
cernible — not  a  note  of  the  incomprehensible 
witches'  chorus — simply  words,  words  that  I 
dared  not  read. 

"  This  is  magic,  this  is  ghost-work,"  I  said. 
"  It  appalls  me.  Look  at  it,  Merivale.  Does 
it  make  sense?  Or  is  it  simply  a  mass  of 
scribbling  without  rhyme  or  reason  ?" 

"  Ye-es,"  rejoined  Merivale  slowly,  "  it  seems 


344  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

to  make  sense.  The  penmanship  is  pretty 
blind,  but  the  words  appear  to  hang  together. 
It  begins, '  I  walked  re — re — reluctantly' — next 
wor4  very  bad — '  I  walked  reluctantly — reluct 
antly — away' — oh  yes,  that's  it — 'away — from 
the — house.'  By  Jove,  this  is  singular  !  Shall 
I  go  on  ?  " 

"Yes,  go  on,"  I  said  faintly.  There  was 
panic  in  my  heart. 

Merivale  continued,  picking  his  way  labori 
ously.  The  following  is  what  he  read. 


XIV. 

*4T  WALKED  reluctantly  away  from  the 
-L  house  after  I  saw  her  light  put  out.  I 
hated  so  to  leave  her  that  it  was  as  if  a  chain 
and  ball  had  been  attached  to  my  ankle.  I  had 
reached  a  point  on  Second  avenue  about  half 
the  distance  home  when  I  halted.  I  had  begun 
to  feel  sick.  Suddenly  my  ears  had  begun  to 
ring,  my  head  to  swim.  I  clutched  at  a  lamp 
post  to  keep  from  falling.  The  ringing  in  my 
ears  became  louder  and  louder — a  roar  like  that 
of  a  strong  wind.  A  deathly  nausea  overcame 
me.  I  thought  I  was  going  to  faint,  perhaps 
to  die.  I  held  on  to  the  lamp-post  and  tried  to 
call  out  for  help.  I  could  not  utter  the  slight 
est  sound  ;  my  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  my 
mouth  as  it  does  in  nightmare.  I  seemed  to  be 
growing  weaker  with  every  breath.  The  noise 
in  my  ears  was  like  an  unbroken  peal  of 
thunder.  My  brain  went  spinning  around  and 


*4<5  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

around  as  if  it  had  been  caught  in  a  whirlpool. 
Then  all  at  once  my  breath  began  to  come  in 
quick  short  gasps  like  the  breath  of  a  panting 
dog  or  like  the  breath  of  a  person  who  has 
taken  laughing-gas.  I  closed  my  eyes  and  for 
how  long  I  know  not  clung  to  the  lamp-post, 
waiting  for  this  internal  upheaval  to  reach  its 
climax.  By  degrees  my  breath  returned  to  its 
normal  state  ;  the  uproar  in  my  ears  subsided  ; 
my  brain  got  quiet  again.  I  felt  as  well  as  ever, 
only  a  bit  startled,  a  bit  shaky  in  the  legs.  I 
thought,  '  You  have  had  an  attack  of  vertigo,  a 
half  fainting-fit.  Now  you  would  best  hurry 
home.'  But-'-but  to  my  unmingled  consterna 
tion  my  body  refused  to  act  in  response  to  my 
will.  I  was  puzzled.  I  tried  again.  Useless. 
I  had  absolutely  no  control  over  my  muscles. 
Experiment  proved  that  I  could  not  move  a 
finger ;  experiment  proved  that  I  could  not  put 
forth  my  foot  and  take  a  step.  I  was  horrified. 
Ah',  I  thought,  this  is  a  stroke  of  paralysis.  For 
a  second  time  I  attempted  to  summon  help. 
For  a  second  time  my  tongue  clove  to  the  roof 
of  my  mouth. 

"  But  if  all  this  horrified  me,  how  much  more 


A  SIT  WAS  WRITTEN.  247 

horrified  was  I  the   moment   after,   when,  in 
entire  independence  of  my  will,  that  body  of 
mine  which  I  had  fancied  paralyzed  began  to 
act  of  its  own  accord  !  began  to  march  briskly 
off  in  a  direction  exactly  opposite  to  that  which 
I  wished  to  follow  !     If  I  had  been  puzzled 
before,  how  much  more  hopelessly  puzzled  was 
I  now  !     Experiment  proved  that  I  was  as  pow 
erless  to  stop  myself  at  present,  as  an  instant 
since  I  had  been  to  set  myself  in  motion.  I  was 
appalled.     I  knew  not  what  this  phenomenon 
was  due  to  or  what  it  might  lead  to.   It  seemed 
precisely  as  though  the  chords  connecting  my 
mind  and  body  had  been  severed,  as  though 
the  will  of    another  person   had   become  the 
reigning  occupant  of  my  frame.     A  thousand 
frightful  possibilities  flashed  upon  my  imagina 
tion.     With  this  utter  incompetency  to  govern 
my  own  movements,  God  knew  what  might 
happen.     I    might    walk    into   the    river;   or  I 
might — I    might    commit    some    irretrievable 
wrong.     Helpless  and  irresponsible  as  I  was,  I 
might  accomplish  that  which  all  the  rest  of  my 
days  I  should  repent. 

Meanwhile  I   had    moved   on,    until    now    I 


348  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

* 

halted  again.  I  looked  around.  I  was  in 
front  of  Veronika's  house.  I  crossed  the 
street,  picked  my  way  through  the  people 
who  were  seated  upon  the  stoop,  mounted  the 
staircase,  and  rang  Veronika's  bell,  wondering 
constantly  what  the  cause  and  what  the  upshot 
of  this  adventure  might  be,  and  powerless  to 
assert  the  least  influence  over  my  physical  acts. 

"Veronika's  voice  sounded  from  behind  the 
door,  '  Is  that  you,  uncle  ?  ' 

"  '  No,  it  is  I,'  my  tongue  replied  of  its  own 
volition. 

"  The  door  opened.  I  saw  Veronika  with 
the  knob  in  her  hand.  She  looked  surprised. 
My  impulse  was  to  take  her  in  my  arms  and 
explain  to  her  the  strange  accident  that  had 
befallen  me.  I  could  not.  I  had  no  more  con 
trol  over  my  body  than  I  had  over  hers. 

"  Veromka  closed  the  door.  She  glanced  up 
at  my  face.  Her  eyes  filled  with  fear. 

" '  Why,  Ernest,'  she  cried,  '  what  is  it  ? 
What  is  the  matter  ?  Why  do  you  look  like 
this?' 

"  I  paused  to  collect  my  utmost  strength, 
tken  tried  to  speak.  Total  failure.  Tried  to 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  249 

reassure  her  with  my  eyes.  Total  failure  :  eyes 
as  uncontrollable  as  the  rest  of  my  person. — But 
impelled  by  that  other  will  which  had  usurped 
the  place  of  mine,  I  approached  her  and  asked, 
'  What  is  your  name  ?  '  It  was  my  voice,  but  it 
was  not  I,  that  asked  the  question. 

" '  Oh,  for  the  love  of  God,'  Veronika  besought, 
1  don't  act  like  this.  Oh,  my  Ernest,  what 
terrible  joke  are  you  playing  ?  Don't  make  me 
think  that  you  have  gone  mad.' 

"  '  What  is  your  name  ?  '  my  voice  repeated, 
stonily. 

"  '  My  name?  What  can  you  mean  ?  Oh  God, 
what  has  come  over  my  beloved  ? ' 

"  Her  face  was  pale,  her  eyes  were  full  of 
anguish.  And  I — I  was  impotent  to  comfort 
her.  My  heart  went  out  to  her  with  a  great 
bound  of  love  ;  but  I  was  in  irons,  chained 
down,  compelled  to  witness,  forbidden  to 
interfere  with  the  action  of  this  awful  drama. 
Fora  third  time  my  tongue  repeated,  'Your 
name — tell  me  your  name.' 

"  'My  name?'  she  gasped.  'You  know  my 
name — Veronika.  See,  don't  you  recognize  me, 
Ernest  ?  I  am  Veronika,  whom  you  are  going 


250  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

to  marry.  Oh,  my  loved  one,  you  are  ill.  What 
can  I  do  to  make  you  well  ? ' 

"  '  Tell  me  your  surname,'  I  said. 

"  '  My  surname — why,  Pathzuol.  Oh,  Ernest, 
say  you  know  me/ 

"  '  And  your  father's  name  ? ' 

"  '  My  father — his  name  was  Nicholas — but 
he  is  dead — died  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  Oh, 
God,  what  does  this  mean  ? ' 

" '  Enough  ;  come  with  me,'  said  the  devil 
whose  victim  I  had  become. 

"  I  grasped  her  wrist  and  led  her  down  the 
hallway.  If  Veronika  was  terrified,  her  terror 
could  not  have  equaled  mine.  What  deed  was 
I  now  bent  upon  committing?  She  followed 
me  passively.  The  expression  of  her  eyes  made 
my  soul  ache  within  me.  How  I  longed  to 
speak  to  her  and  soothe  her.  How  I  longed  to 
step  between  her  and  myself,  to  protect  her 
from  this  maniac  in  whose  power  she  was.  To 
be  obliged  to  stand  by  and  see  this  thing  enact 
ed — imagine  the  agony  I  suffered. 

"  I  led  her  down  the  hallway  and  into  the 
dining-room.  Then  I  released  her  wrist,  and 
crossed  over  to  the  sideboard.  I  opened  the 


AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN.  *5l 

lideboard  drawer  and  took  out  a  long,  keen 
knife.  I  tried  the  point  and  the  edge  of  the 
knife  upon  my  thumb. 

"'Are  you — are  you  going  to  kill  me, 
Ernest  ? '  I  heard  Veronika  ask,  very  low. 

"'Yes,  I  am  going  to  kill  you.  Lead  the 
way  to  your  bed-chamber.' 

"  Veronika's  hand  clutched  convulsively  at 
her  breast.  She  said  nothing.  She  moved 
slowly  back  into  the  hall  and  thence  into  her 
bedroom,  I  following. 

"  '  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  stop  and  think  what 
you  are  doing,'  she  cried  out  suddenly,  turn 
ing  and  facing  me  at  the  threshold  of  her 
room.  '  Think,  Ernest,  that  it  is  I,  Veronika, 
whom  you  are  going  to  kill.  Think,  oh  my 
loved  one,  think  how  you  will  suffer  if  ever 
you  come  to  and  realize  what  you  have  done. 
Oh,  is  there  no  way  for  me  to  bring  him  to  him 
self!' 

"  Presently  she  continued,  '  But  tell  me  first 
what  I  have  done. — Oh,  I  can  not  bear  to  die 
until  I  know  that  you  don't  suspect  me  of  hav 
ing  wronged  you  in  any  w.ay.  Oh,  Ernest,  oh, 
if  you  would  only  speak  one  word.  Oh,  my 


«5*  AS  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

darling,  do  not  kill  me  without  speaking  to  me. 
Oh  God,  oh  God  !  Oh,  there,  there,  he  is  going 
to  kill  me  ;  he  will  not  speak  to  me.  Oh,  what 
have  I  done?  Ernest,  Ernest !  Wake  up — stop 
your  arm — don't  strike  me.  Oh  God,  God, 
God!' 

"  After  it  was  over  I  dried  my  hands  upon  my 
handkerchief,  turned  out  the  gas  in  the  hall, 
locked  the  door  on  the  outside,  put  the  key 
into  my  pocket,  and  went  away." 


What  remains  for  me  to  tell  ?  The  above  is 
what  Merivale  read  to  me.  The  above  is  what 
I  had  written.  Could  I  doubt  its  truth?  I  did 
not,  I  do  not,  at  any  rate. 

I  am  informed  that  a  man  once  tried  for 
murder  and  acquitted  can  not,  as  the  lawyers 
put  it,  can  not  be  placed  in  jeopardy  again.  But 
I  am  enough  of  a  Jew  to  believe  in  eye  for  eye 
and  tooth  for  tooth.  I  shall  see  to  it  that  I  do 
not  escape  that  penalty  which  the  law  would 
have  imposed  upon  me,  had  the  facts  I  am  now 
aware  of  come  out  at  my  trial.  I  shall  see  to 


AS  IT   WAS  WRITTEN.  253 

it  that  the  murderer  of  Veronika  Pathzuol  meets 
with  the  punishment  which  his  crime  demands. 

It    has  taken  me  a  week    to  write  out  this 

account.     I  want  the  public   to  have  it.     No 

need  to  analyze  the  motives  that  prompt  this 

wish.     I  shall    confide    the    MS.  to  my  friend 

Merivale  with  directions  that  it  be  printed. 

I  do  not  think  of  any  thing  more  that  needs 
to  be  said. 

THE  END. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


»WIII||S 

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3   1970  02064   7506 


